


The World By Fire

by Shriamato



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Miscarriage, Soulmates, canon charater death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-11 22:25:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 26,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shriamato/pseuds/Shriamato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deirdre "Dre" Connelly is a hunter. And a demon. And a goddess. And Dean Winchester's apparent soul mate. Her life may have been planned out from the beginning, but that doesn't make it any easier to actually live it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prolouge

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been abandoned and discontinued, sadly. I wish I could've finished it, but I lost the thread. I'll post everything I have for it (including notes and behind the scenes stuff), because it feels wrong leaving it to rot after all the work I put into it. If you decide to read, thanks for your time.
> 
> *
> 
> As this story isn't finished, there are gaps in the storyline.
> 
> *
> 
> This story completely ignores anything after season two. So, no angels.

“ _I exorcise thee, every unclean spirit,_  
 _in the name of God the Father…_ ”  
  
*  
  
She never thought that silence could be this oppressing. It’s more oppressing than the hands pinning, holding, and forcing her down. She can’t hear the words, never could. The second they start chanting, voices soft and soothing before turning harsh and demanding, this veil of white static begins bu _zz_ -bu _zz_ -bu _zz_ ing away in her head.  
  
She’s about ninety percent sure that the non-noise is worse than actually hearing those dreaded words.  
  
*  
  
 _“… and in the name of Jesus Christ,_  
 _our Lord and Judge…”_  
  
`  
  
It’s gets louder the longer it goes on, the more often they try this. It swells and pulses, a rhythm without any sound. Up then down; down then up. In and out, and in and in, building faster and faster before spiraling into nothing.  
  
Faster than she can drag in a lungful of air around the fingers clamped over her mouth, the song starts all over again.  
  
*  
  
 _“… and in the power of the Holy Spirit,_  
 _that thou depart from this creature of God…”_  
  
*  
  
She squeezes her eyes shut tighter, trying to convince herself that the flames glistening along the edges of darkness are just her imagination.  
  
*  
  
 _“… which our Lord has designed_  
 _to call unto His holy temple…”_  
  
*  
  
Time twists and turns, and all that’s left is flame-riddled darkness. The static remains; only now it feels like comfort. Like fire. Comfort fire. Protection from hands that hold, bruise, and bite. That mark.  
  
She hates their marks. They make her feel dirty, tainted. They burn as hot as her fire burns cold. They sink down, down, down to her bones and tear a scream out of her throat.  
  
It’s not just a scream of pain.  
  
*  
  
 _“I cast out you, noxious vermin,_  
 _through the same Christ our Lord…”_  
  
*  
  
The fire spreads from her mind; from her aching throat to her pounding heart, and pumps through her veins like blood. It tingles down her arms, drops heavy into the pit of her stomach, and rushes to the tips of her toes scraped raw against the stone floor.  
  
Every nerve, every cell, every inch of her body is overloaded. She feels like she’s shaking apart, surrounded by nothing but bruising hands and static noise.  
  
*  
  
 _“… who shall come to judge the living_  
 _and the dead and the world by fire.”_  
  
*  
  
Finally, everything goes blissfully dark.  
  
~~*~~  
  
Sister Clarice dips her head in acknowledgment as Father Arrian step out of the room, before turning her attention to the child passed out on the cot. The poor child looked terrible.  
  
She sweeps sweat-soaked hair out the girl’s eyes before using a wet cloth to wash away the worst of the tearstains.  
  
It had taken four tries tonight to silence that dreadful inhuman scream. Twice more than last time. Three times more than the first time. Of course, it was easier to hold a sleepy three year old or a shell-shocked eight year old still for an exorcism than a rage (and Lord only knows what else) driven eleven year old.  
  
Clarice couldn’t help feeling sorry for the girl. It wasn’t completely her fault that she was weak enough to attract these evil spirits. Although, in her own opinion, the girl should stop with all those chilling horror stories she is always telling. That is just asking for trouble.  
  
Not to mention, it causes many nightmares with the younger children.  
  
Nevertheless, stories, as disquieting as they may be, are nowhere near as bad as a crazed attack on a complete stranger. Clarice had seen the kid’s eyes. It wasn’t normal childhood behavior for a usually well-mannered child (a few demonic-driven outbursts aside) to bite a man deep enough to draw blood for no reason.  
  
She only hopes that the girl’s fractured wrist and bruises heal before the next board check. One slightly tainted apple shouldn’t have to spoil the rest.  
  
As she pulls the thin blanket up, the child’s eyes flick open and lock onto Clarice’s eyes.  
  
The Sister pulls back with a gasp.  
  
Her eyes are black. They’re flames.  
  
Clarice screams.


	2. A Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lonely child in a bright-lit shop, with a few quick lies and convincing tears wraps her arms around a younger child, and in doing so, forms a bond that changes everything.

It’s dark. Darker then she’s used to, for sure. Darker than it ever seemed looking out a window of one of her many rooms. “Too dark,” her mind supplies, but she doesn’t stop to figure out what that’s supposed to mean.  
  
It’s incredibly confusing, as well. She’s been mapping streets out in her head for a while now, but everything looks so different in the dark. The streetlights don’t touch this kind of darkness. Every shadow has something hiding in it, and dear lord, if she doesn’t stop thinking like that she’s going to end up running right back to where she just ran away from.  
  
“Positive thoughts, Deirdre,” she whispers to herself (and she likes how the name sounds on her tongue. she can’t help but think that it would sound even nicer on someone else’s). “Just think; you’re finally free.”  
  
A lonely child walking down a dark and dirty street with a grin on her face would’ve been an odd sight… had there been anyone around to see it.  
  
*  
  
Night again, but this time, it doesn’t seem as dark. Months on the move have taught her that shadows are a good thing and not a hindrance. They hide her away from would-be prying eyes, and so-called helpful intentions that would land her right back where she started.  
  
And as long as she keeps an eye out for rats, stray dogs and drunken idiots, it’s actually not so bad.  
  
The hard part is finding somewhere safe to sleep.  
  
The harder part is finding something to eat that isn’t garbage.  
  
The hardest part is ignoring the ever-present voices in her head.  
  
“Maybe tomorrow you’ll find someone who will ask your name, Deirdre,” she whispers to herself (because as comforting as it’s come to be, she’s grown tired of hearing her new name on her own tongue). “Just remember, you’re free now.”  
  
A lonely child sitting in a dark and dirty ally wraps her arms around her knees and prepares for another night of fighting away the darker dreams.  
  
*  
  
A year of narrow escapes and hard-earned lessons has her seeing better in the dark then she ever did in the light. The light reveals too much, and gives her nowhere to hide. It’s a difficult line to walk, looking secure enough that nobody looks too close but innocent enough that no one will suspect.  
  
She pockets a bag of chips and tries not to scurry farther around the corner when the manager walks by on the other side, holding a girl by the arm. A quick glance at the girl’s eyes and it’s obvious that she’s been running for a while, too.  
  
“You know how hard it is, Deirdre,” a voice whispers in her mind. “Everyone sees, but nobody helps.”  
  
She sighs as she pulls the bag of chips back out, and tosses it on the shelf.  
  
A lonely child in a bright-lit shop, with a few quick lies and convincing tears wraps her arms around a younger child, and in doing so, forms a bond that changes everything.  
  
*  
  
“That was amazing. I mean, I never would’ve been able to be that convincing. And the tears? The perfect touch. I still can’t believe they fell for it, though; and gave us a meal to boot!” Blue eyes dancing, the girl skips along, chattering up a storm, and it’s so different from the past year that it’s almost surreal.  
  
“Do you ever stop talking?”  
  
Little feet skip a beat, but quickly pick the rhythm back up, falling into step with her dark eyed companion. “Yes, but it’s just been so, so, so long since I’ve had anybody my own age to talk to, and you seem nice enough, even if you are dirtier than I am, which I didn’t think possible, and, man, what I wouldn’t give for a hot bath right now.” A quick pause for a breath and she picks up again. “You know, I like your hair. I always wanted long hair, you know, like all the pretty Hollywood actresses have, but my hair just never seems to get longer then shoulder length, but yours is pretty. Dark, too, which is probably good, because then it doesn’t really matter if it is dirty or not, because it wouldn’t show all the dirt like my blond hair does.”  
  
“Um… sure.”  
  
A pale, slender hand slips into hers. (‘ _so happy, safe, so good not to be alone, please, please, don’t leave, let me stay, let me stay._ ’)   
  
“You of all people know how it is, Deirdre,” a voice whispers in her head, above the other foreign thoughts and feelings. “You know how cold it is out here all alone in the dark.”  
  
She sighs, and laces her fingers with the bright-eyed child next to her.  
  
“So, you got a name, or do I just call you Chatterbox?”  
  
Blue eyes flood with relief, and laughter fills the dark and dirty street. “I’m Nia.”  
  
Brown eyes close, and she takes a deep breath. “Deirdre,” she whispers back. “But you can call me Dre.”  
  
Nia looks up at her new friend and smiles (her first true smile in too long). “It’s nice to meet you, Dre.”  
  
Deirdre smiles back. “Yeah,” she replies. “It really is.”  
  
*  
  
Schemes and plans disappear in screams and blood.  
  
Six months of friendship go up in salt and flames.  
  
( _anger, pain, oh god no please, why, why, why, how could you, don’t please don’t, vengeance, tears, so so many years, blood, why look at those pretty pretty blue eyes, oh god no please, they should be mine, where were you? where were you_?)  
  
Deirdre Connelly wipes the tears away with a shaking hand.  
  
“I’m sorry, Nia. I’m so sorry.”  
  
She picks up what’s left of her life, and turns away from her best friend’s charred remains.  
  
One ghost down, but she’ll bet anything that there’s more out there.  
  
Thirteen and alone, but now she has work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an FYI: Her name is pronounced DEER-DRE, not DEER-DRA. Hence Dre being her nickname.


	3. When in Doubt, Prove Them Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under Zane's not-so careful training, she's flourished. Her aim with her hard-earned firearms has improved. She's grown into her skin, and her dexterity with a blade has a sliver of fear residing in her teacher's eyes these days. Most of the hunts they've been on have been easy, and most of the time, Zane's too busy trying to show off his non-existent skills to realize that she's doing most of the work.
> 
> Now, she's getting restless. She wants a challenge.
> 
> And she gets it in the form of John Winchester.

She always keeps her eyes closed.  
  
It's just easier that way.  
  
He lets her have that small measure of peace. An asshole he is, but at least he doesn't force this issue. He doesn't mind that she isn't with him in mind, when he has her body. She's grateful for that, she is, but still... one day, she'll make him pay for thinking he can take advantage of a stray.  
  
It may have been her offer, her idea, but he accepted it.  
  
She won't forget that, no matter how grateful she is.  
  
*  
  
It's been a little over a year since Deirdre Connelly struck a deal with supernatural hunter Zane Newman. She's regretted it ever since, but not enough to call it off. Learning the art of the hunt was worth any pain and humiliation she might have to suffer. Moreover, unknown to him, he was teaching her more than just weapons training.  
  
He was teaching her how to use herself as a weapon as well.  
  
As street urchin, Dre has never had much to her name other than her looks and her mind. Most people only care about the looks. Like Zane. Like her string of foster "fathers". Like the eyes of all the men, and even some women, that has followed her around for years. She's learned to use it to her advantage.  
  
Under Zane's not-so careful training, she's flourished. Her aim with her hard-earned firearms has improved. She's grown into her skin, and her dexterity with a blade has a sliver of fear residing in her teacher's eyes these days. Most of the hunts they've been on have been easy, and most of the time, Zane's too busy trying to show off his non-existent skills to realize that she's doing most of the work.  
  
Now, she's getting restless. She wants a challenge.  
  
And she gets it in the form of John Winchester.  
  
*  
  
First, she learns that John Winchester does not tolerate bullshit from anyone. Not even another hunter. Zane learns that the hard way. Dre learns it watching their exchange from the shadows.  
  
Second, she learns that John Winchester does not play well with others. The black eye Zane is sporting makes that obvious.  
  
Third, she learns that underneath those cold, hard eyes is a man who actually cares about children. (and even though Dre hasn't considered herself a child in a long, long time, it's still nice to know.) When Zane tries to pass her off as his little sister, and drops a ( _too_ ) possessive hand onto her shoulder, those cold eyes get even colder.  
  
She shrugs the hand off, not caring if she pisses him off now, not with John freaking Winchester standing there with a sawed-off shotgun over his shoulder. She smoothes things over, not because she cares if Zane gets his ass handed to him, but because she wants to see this man hunt. She knows that he will be able to teach her so much more than Zane ever could.  
  
She tells the truth, or at least part of it. Zane "saved" her. She had no one left, and she wanted to learn to defend herself against the evil in the world. She leaves out their deal, although the way John looks at her makes her think that he knows there's more to the story. He lets it slide.  
  
She doesn't when he tries to tell Zane to leave her at the motel.  
  
The fourth thing she learns is that John Winchester won't listen to reason. It's an annoying trait, which has probably pissed many people off.  
  
Zane... well, he doesn't really listen at all, but he does read the look she gives him. Apparently the promise in her eyes gives him the backbone (or something) that he needs to stand up to the older hunter.  
  
He lets her come.  
  
*  
  
In the heat of the moment, it was a completely normal reaction. One that could be explained away by the fact that she was fifteen, and relatively new to the hunt. Even hardened hunters would have been hard pressed not to panic at the sight of a giant werewolf charging at them. A little hesitation is to be expected.  
  
Looking back though, she's not completely convinced. Looking back, she realizes that it wasn't fear that made her stay still when she should have been aiming and shooting. She'd seen him coming up from the side. That was the whole plan after all. John would herd it to the chosen spot, Dre would distract it and Zane would close in for the kill. She didn't even raise her gun when Zane snapped a twig and the damn thing turned on him.  
  
John ended up taking the kill.  
  
Zane ended up torn the hell up and bleeding from the bite wound on his arm.  
  
Dre didn't even blink until the sound of a gunshot broke through the haze.  
  
Now she's wishing for that veil of white noise that had filled her mind for those precious moments. John's ranting at her about the dangers of hunting before you're ready, and not letting fear cloud your mind when your unit is depending on you as he drags a groaning Zane to a tree and ties him to it.  
  
Thing is, she doesn't think it was a mistake.  
  
And she's not so sure she feels too guilty about that.  
  
"… hell, even Sammy knows better than that, and he's twelve!" John grumbles to himself as he makes sure the knots are secure.  
  
That gets her attention.  
  
Dre blinks. "Who's Sammy?"  
  
John straightens up and turns to look at her with a heavy sigh. "Doesn't matter. Look, Newman here was bitten pretty badly. The only thing we can really do is put the poor bastard out of his misery."  Zane whimpers behind him, and John sighs again. Dre stifles a nervous giggle. "I'll do it. You go back to the truck and wait for me there," he orders, as if he's used to people obeying him.  
  
Dre takes a step back as he takes out his gun (the one with blessed silver bullets, he'd told her with a grim smile. that was hours ago now, back at the motel) and turns back to Zane. "Go on now, Deirdre. Get," he demands again, his voice firm. That tone must have people jumping when he says jump, because she almost goes.  
  
But then she sees him raising the gun and taking aim.  
  
She can't let him do it.  
  
*  
  
John gives her a ride back to the motel.  
  
She doesn't react when she feels him steal another glance at her.  
  
She can still hear the gunshot echoing in her ears. She can still see Zane's eyes as the trigger was pulled. She still feels John's eyes on her, angry and shocked. Maybe just a little afraid. Her hands still shake from the recoil of the gun. She turns to the window and fights down something that might be a smile.  
  
The drive seems to take forever, but then again, it's over before it barely began. She climbs out, and walks toward their room. (hers now, actually. just hers.) She unlocks the door with shaking hands, barely able to keep the hysterical laughter from bursting out. The room is exactly how they left it. Her bag is sitting under the window, neatly packed and ready to grab at a moment’s notice. Zane's bag is lying, empty and discarded, by the bed. His perpetually stained clothes are flung everywhere.  
  
She works on autopilot, straightening the papers on the table and placing the clothes she folds on the edge of the bed. She picks up the empty bottles and puts them in the trash. John stands just inside the door, watching her carefully. Watching her like she's some wild animal that will be spooked at the slightest noise.  
  
A few moments later she's got the weapons spread out on the bed, in two piles. Next to one she stacks Zane's clothes and some of his books. The others she stuffs into Zane's empty duffel, along with her own. She doesn't look up, just motions to the stuff on the bed. "Take what you want. I've got no need for any of it."  
  
John steps in slowly, cautiously, and she can't help the slightly crazed grin that breaks across her face.  
  
He looks over the weapons, fingering them, and in turn doesn't look at her when he asks, "Do you have somewhere to go?"  
  
This time she does laugh. "Yes and no. I'm free now; I can go anywhere I want."  
  
*  
  
Ten minutes later and she has the pile of clothes and books burning out behind the motel.  
  
John stands next to her, hands shoved in his pockets, and shoulders hunched inside his worn leather jacket. He sighs, and she hopes he doesn't feel the need to break the silence. He does anyway.  
  
"I know this woman, Ellen... she's got a daughter around your age. I'm sure she'd be happy to give you a place to stay for a while. I could call her, if you want..."  
  
She cuts him off with a wave of a hand. "No, thank you. I can take care of myself."  
  
That gets a new reaction out of him. "You're, what, fifteen, sixteen? You're too young to be out hunting on your own. I mean, look what happened tonight! You almost got yourself killed, and another hunter did die. You still want to tell me you can take care of yourself?" he snaps, eyes flashing.  
  
She just shrugs indolently, eyes still glued to the crackling fire.  
  
He sighs, closing his eyes against the image of his eldest son's own version of that careless shrug. "No child should have to do what you did tonight."  
  
"No child should have to salt and burn her best friend's corpse, either, Mr. Winchester, but shit tends to happen. And I haven't been a child since I learned about the things that go bump in the night," she tilts her head to look up at him. "I've been taking care of myself for a long time." She grins, the crazed edge back in her eyes. "Besides, that bastard got what he deserved."  
  
Turning back to the fire, she watches the last traces of Zane Newman turn to ash.  
  
*  
  
She waits until the sleek black car carrying John Winchester is out of sight before pulling the worn black wallet from her jacket pocket. See if he can say that she doesn't have the skills to be a hunter now. She opens it and pulls out the small wad of cash, shoving it into her front pocket. She leaves the obviously fake credit cards alone.  
  
The frayed and bent corner of a picture peeks out of one of the folds, and she carefully pulls it out. A blonde woman with blue green eyes is smiling at the camera, arms wrapped around a younger, softer version of John Winchester. She feels a flash of envy at the fact that before the shit hit the fan he at least knew what it was to be happy. She never had that. She carefully tucks the picture back, and pulls out the one underneath it.  
  
Two beautiful boys sitting on the hood of that beautiful black car that John Winchester just drove off in. The older one is grinning down at the younger, half his face in shadow. The younger is laughing, his face open and happy. Her breath catches in her throat for a moment. Never in her life has she actually had the privilege to see such happiness on a child's face. ("Sammy," her brain helpfully supplies, the name stuck in her memory in John's voice.) Never has she seen so much love for another as she does on the partly obscured face of the older brother.  
  
As she reluctantly tucks the picture back into the wallet, on top of the other picture, she can't help but wish that she knew the older boy's name, too.  
  
*  
  
It's quick work, really, to pick the locks and get the door open. These older models are so much easier than the new ones. She peeks up over the door again to make sure there's no movement inside the room.  
  
She pulls the familiar wallet out of her pocket, and resists the urge to look at the picture of those boys one last time.  
  
It's been three weeks, and it was slightly more difficult than she expected to pick up Winchester's trail. But, at last, she found him. The car was helpful, too. Not too many '67 Chevy Impalas on the road, apparently. At least, not in such amazing condition, as one technician told her a few states back.  
  
She opens the glove compartment and shoves the wallet underneath the collection of worn road maps. That way, it'll be easy to find, but not right away. He's had three weeks to notice the damn thing was missing. He won't be expecting it to show up, and in his own car, no less. Dre grins and closes the door as quietly as possible.  
  
They'll never even know she was there.  
  
*  
  
 **Three Days Later**  
  
"Hey, Dad. I thought you said your wallet was missing?" Dean closes the glove compartment, a map in one hand and John's missing wallet in the other.  
  
John scoffs as he takes it, opening it to find the money gone and the cards still there. The girl knew what she was doing; he had to give her that. How she'd managed to track them down, though... they'd left the day after he'd gotten back from that damn hunt gone wrong.  
  
He pulls the two pictures out, looks at them for a moment, before straightening out the corners, and putting them back in the right way.  
  
She'd seen his family.  
  
He wasn't too sure what he thought of that.  
  
But, hell, maybe the girl would make a damn good hunter after all.


	4. Footprints In The Sand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John opens his eyes to his motel room. Early morning sunshine leaks through the blinds, washing out all color.
> 
> However, She is vivid.
> 
> Stormy gray eyes meet his, and despite everything he has seen in his work, he’s not afraid.
> 
> Not for him, at least.
> 
> “Why them?” he whispers, though he’s not quite sure what he’s asking.
> 
> “Because there’s no one else,” She whispers back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little interlude.

The landscape shifts slowly, from lush farmlands with fertile ground, to tangled jungle vines, hot desert sand underfoot.  
  
He sees a figure in the distance, hood pulled up to fend off the pounding rain. The sun still shines, throwing prisms through the air.  
  
“Hello?”  
  
The figure turns, a man, face obscured from the sun’s glare, but he can see that he’s holding something tightly to his chest.  
  
There are several footprint tracks in the sand, all of them leading away from the lone figure.  
  
*  
  
The storm rolls in fast, and without warning. Thunder rumbles, lightning flashes, and rain falls in torrents.  
  
A girl stands in the middle of it all, soaked to the skin, and screaming.  
  
The puddle she’s standing in reflects two faces back at her.  
  
One is laughing, fire and darkness in its eyes.  
  
The other is crying, a white void where its eyes should be.  
  
*  
  
A non-descript motel room is next. Dean sits at the table. His eyes are bloodshot. He stares blankly at the empty liquor bottle in front of him.  
  
Sam sits on one of the beds, hair in his face and hands twined in his lap. His eyes are bloodshot, too, but locked on his brother’s hunched form.  
  
“Dean, man, you can’t do this to yourself.”  
  
Dean doesn’t look away from the empty bottle.  
  
“Watch me.”  
  
*  
  
The field stretches out for miles, nothing but sweet grass and blue skies. It would be perfect, if not for the gaping crevice down the middle.  
  
They stand together, one on each side, eyes locked and hands clasped.  
  
Their shadows melt together, becoming one.  
  
When they part, it tears jagged down the middle.  
  
*  
  
John opens his eyes to his motel room. Early morning sunshine leaks through the blinds, washing out all color.  
  
However, She is vivid.  
  
Stormy gray eyes meet his, and despite everything he has seen in his work, he’s not afraid.  
  
Not for him, at least.  
  
“Why them?” he whispers, though he’s not quite sure what he’s asking.  
  
“Because there’s no one else,” She whispers back.


	5. Depends on the Setting Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What else is out there?"
> 
> She leans up against the wall next to him. "Sure you want to know? Once is a fluke and can be written off. Anything more and it becomes a pattern."
> 
> He doesn't even look at her, just tilts his head up and stares at the stars. "Tell me."

After Zane's death, she quickly learned that she prefers working alone. For the first couple of years, it was a little more difficult to get the information she needed, but she managed. She had to. She had no choice.  
  
She learned how to work people easily. As much as she hates to think about it, she's pretty sure that whatever it is that she has (empathy keeps sticking out like a sore thumb whenever she has the guts to actually research it) helps with that a hell of a lot. That, and people seem to be a little more open to talking to a nice, sweet orphan.  
  
She’s also learned that sympathy goes a long way.  
  
By the time she hit eighteen, she'd taken on another werewolf (and that time, she managed to pull the trigger at the right one), a shape-shifter, a few poltergeists, and more restless spirits then she cares to count. There was also that one cursed ring, but she really doesn't like thinking about that one too much. Sufficed to say, she learned that research is vitally important.  
  
In the last few years, she's done many interesting things and has met many interesting people. But, honestly, these boys take the cake. Seriously.  
  
*  
  
Nathaniel "call me Nate" Rodgers is tall, reed thin and dark. Not the cutest guy that Dre has ever had the pleasure of meeting, but one of the sweetest, for sure. At least he would be if one of his friends hadn't been in imminent danger.  
  
Garron Nigel is a Marine to the core and Dre could see that before he told her... five different times within an hour. He is all muscle and the bluest eyes she has ever seen. She mourns the fact that his personality doesn't match 'em a little better.  
  
Douglass Black matches his name. He's so quiet that Dre would almost forget he's there, if not for the almost coal black eyes that follow her every move with blatant suspicion. Not that she can blame him. If an (almost) nineteen year old girl showed up out of nowhere with a story as wild as hers, she'd be wary, too.  
  
Jay McKenzie is a good-looking guy, and god, does he ever know it. He's an annoying flirt and more than somewhat sleazy. And if he keeps staring at her chest like that, she's going to smack him.  
  
Hard.  
  
*  
  
So, she's in some small one-stoplight town in Wisconsin tracking down what she's pretty sure is a wendigo, right? Because it's always the small backwater, middle of freakin' nowhere towns that have the woods where all the children like to play, and more so, where all the parents let them play. Moreover, of course, it makes it the perfect hunting grounds.  
  
She figured there would be a lot of search parties out, both the police sheriff's men, and all the town people, but who would have expected a freakin' unit of Marines?  
  
Dre sure as hell didn't.  
  
*  
  
Jacob Brant grew up in this tiny town. He'd come back to visit his sick mother, and was there when the second child went missing. He had training that most of the "law enforcement" in this place would never dream to dream of.  
  
He was among one of the first search parties to head out. He figured he'd be able to handle himself if he went off on his own. After all, not many in this town could hold their own against him, and he really didn't want an audience when he got his hands on this child snatcher.  
  
In reality, he just made a much more tempting meal for the real monster haunting these woods.  
  
*  
  
Dre's not sure if they actually believe her, Douglass especially, but at least they haven't hog-tied her to a tree yet. They all have their guns loaded, safety off, but it's not going to do them much good. Nate, at least, was nice enough to indulge her by actually accepting one of the flares she tried passing out.  
  
They're all itching for blood, though, not flames.  
  
Dre doesn't bother telling them that flames can be just as satisfying, if not more.  
  
*  
  
Tracking is made a little bit harder with all the search parties out. Too many footprints. Even Jay, who's supposed to specialize in tracking, admits that it's pretty much hopeless. (although he says that part of it is because it's hard to see with his eye swelling up, but honestly, he was just asking for it.)  
  
Eventually, though, they find a small cave that most people probably passed by. The plants around the entrance barely appear disturbed, and that gives Dre a moment’s pause. Research had revealed that these things are ridiculously smart. They're hunters too, and Dre really doesn't want to become the hunted tonight.  
  
The moment is broken when Garron just pushes in front of her and tramps in, his unit following their leader.  
  
Dre just sighs and rolls her eyes.  
  
Things are about to get hairy.  
  
*  
  
The wendigo makes a break for it, probably figuring that it'll be easier to lose 'em (or ambush 'em) out in the tangled maze of dense trees. Dre tells Jay and Nate to find the captives, and isn't at all surprised when Garron and Douglass are right behind her when she goes to follow the damn thing.  
  
As long as they have those flares ready to go, they shouldn't be too much of a hindrance. Hopefully.  
  
Immediately outside the cave entrance are footprints leading to the right. While most people would automatically follow those, these Marine boys are a little smarter than that. Garron signals Douglass to go left. Douglass (and really, she's starting to wonder if the guy even can talk, because she hasn't heard him say one word) just nods.  
  
They, gentlemen that they are (please, she knows they only want to keep her where they can see her), make her go ahead of them. She doesn't fight them, just walks slowly forward, flare gun held loosely in her hand.  
  
 _Any second now_...  
  
a tiny twinge at the back of her mind, and she's spinning around, shouting at them to hit the deck as she's pulling the trigger.  
  
The wendigo is burning before it hits the ground.  
  
*  
  
She fades into the crowds as Garron and his unit (Jacob included) endures the town's heartfelt thank yous. Pats on the back from the men (she saw Jake wince at one particularly enthusiastic man's "pat", and wonders if he isn't a little more bruised up then he let on) and lots hugs and tears from the women.  
  
She gets a little teary eyed herself, watching the parents of the missing kids cuddle and kiss their babies. It's the best part of the job.  
  
Of course, she nearly has a heart attack when she turns around to find Douglass standing right behind her. She could swear his mouth almost quirks into a grin when she gasps and clutches (maybe a little over-dramatically) at her heart.  
  
"Christ, make a little noise, would you?"  
  
He just jerks his head toward the back door.  
  
*  
  
Outside, he leans up against the wall and pulls out a pack of cigarettes, offers her one. It's not something she makes a habit out of, but it's definitely not the first time. The things you have to do to get the information you want. She shrugs and accepts the light he holds out.  
  
They stand in silence for a few minutes, and he nearly gives her another heart attack when he speaks. "What exactly did you call that thing?"  
  
She throws a quick grin at him. "You know, I was beginning to think you didn't talk." She takes another drag, and blows it out slowly before answering, the grin slipping off her face. "Wendigo."  
  
He nods. "What else is out there?"  
  
She leans up against the wall next to him. "Sure you want to know? Once is a fluke and can be written off. Anything more and it becomes a pattern."  
  
He doesn't even look at her, just tilts his head up and stares at the stars. "Tell me."  
  
She shrugs again, dropping the cigarette and stomping it out. "I've come across a couple werewolves. A lot of angry spirits. I've never actually dealt with one, but I've been warned about demons." She pauses for a moment, and sighs. "All your darkest nightmares come to life. And most people don't even know it."  
  
*  
  
All five of them stand in a semi-circle around her bike as she packs it up. She tries not to show that she's feeling slightly claustrophobic, but she's pretty sure they all know it anyway.  
  
Jacob is the first to step forward when she turns around. He picks up her hand and she laughs when he kisses it. "Thank you for saving not only my ass, but those idiots' as well," he says with a wink and a grin.  
  
Nate is next, and he just hugs her, all awkward arms and a whispered "thank you" in her ear. He blushes tomato red when she kisses him on the cheek.  
  
Garron gives her a formal and slightly stiff handshake, but his earlier arrogance is gone. She does manage to get a barely-there grin and an eye roll when she mockingly salutes him.  
  
Jay approaches her cautiously. "Are you going to hit me again if I give you a hug?"  
  
Dre quirks an eyebrow. "Depends. Are you going to hit on me again?"  
  
He ducks his head down, and scratches at his head. "Sorry. It's a habit. Really."  
  
"Fine. But any funny business and you'll wish I only punched you."  
  
His hug is quick and he keeps his hands to himself right up until he pulls away and smacks her ass as he walks by her. She chases after him when he takes off running, and they're all laughing by the time he lets her tackle him to the ground.  
  
These boys take the cake. Seriously.  
  
*  
  
Douglass waits until the others make for the bar (probably wanting to forget everything they've seen tonight) before approaching her again.  
  
"Both my cell, and Garron's," he says, handing a white business card to her. "We talked it over with the other boys, and they agree. Anything we can do to help, you call us, Deirdre."  
  
Dre tucks the card into her back pocket, and then throws her arms around Douglass's neck. "Thank you."  
  
He pats her awkwardly on the back. "For a member of our unit, anything."  
  
*  
  
After Zane's death, she quickly learned that she prefers working alone, but it is always nice to know that she has friends willing to help if she needs it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These boys were supposed to make an appearance again later in the story.


	6. Setting the Wheels in Motion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She does spare an appreciative glance at the beautiful ’67 Impala park haphazardly in front of the building, before pushing through the door into the dim, smoky interior.
> 
> This time tomorrow, she’ll wonder why it took her so long to notice him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dre and Dean's first meeting.

**Boise, Idaho**  
 **October 9th, 2001**  
  
After hours (days, weeks, months, hell, even years) on the road, the lack of the comforting rumble of the motorcycle is jarring. It never fails to leave her feeling empty and slightly on edge.   
  
It might explain why she didn’t notice the obvious signs until it was much too late.  
  
She swings her leg over her bike, and kicks down the stand before straightening her charcoal gray leather jacket. A quick hand through her windblown locks, and she stalks toward the bar, the sharp click of her heeled boots drawing attention that she pretends to be oblivious to.  
  
She does spare an appreciative glance at the beautiful ’67 Impala park haphazardly in front of the building, before pushing through the door into the dim, smoky interior.  
  
This time tomorrow, she’ll wonder why it took her so long to notice him.  
  
She claims a stool at the far end of the bar (far away from the drunken idiots making fools out of themselves around the pool tables, but still giving her a clear view of all the exits) and orders a beer from the gruff bartender.  
  
She sips it quietly, glaring at the men (and several woman) who try invading her space. She’s not in the mood for confrontation, or conversation. All she wants is to unwind and try to get her mind off the latest hunt with the not-so-happy ending.  
  
That last all of ten minutes before a shout and a crash draw her attention.  
  
What she sees takes her breath away (and she can’t help but scoff at her clichéd line of thought). Dark blonde hair, green eyes glinting catlike-gold in the weak light… this boy looked every part of the spoiled wanna be badass. And he talked the talk, as well.  
  
Nevertheless, she knew a hustler when she saw one.  
  
The other man, though, wasn’t nearly as enlightened. He let himself be taunted into another high stakes game of pool. (“Piece of cake,” he slurred drunkenly to his friends. “Kid can’t sink a shot to save his life.”)  
  
The “kid” just smirked and racked the balls.  
  
As he stepped back to let his victim take the first shot, his gaze locked onto hers, amusement sparkling in his green eyes. His grin just gets wider when she holds the stare and raises her bottle in salute.  
  
A challenge, possibly. (later she’ll think that she probably should’ve ended it there.)  
  
*  
  
The game ends quickly after the first couple purposely fumbled shots. The hustled man takes it well enough, although one of his friends has to be talked out of bruising the hustler’s pretty face. (and that would’ve been a cryin’ shame, if anyone asked her.)  
  
He saunters over to the bar, signals to the bartender, and then (“finally,” the girly part of her brain sighs) turns his attention back to her.  
  
“Enjoying yourself?” he asks, this sexy little half smile on his face as he picks up his beer and angles his body toward her. She gets the feeling (an ordinary feeling, not the kind of feeling she usually tries to ignore) that this is pretty every day for him… but she’d never been one to play by other’s rules.  
  
She laughs (which sort of startles her, because it’s a real laugh, not a faked one, and it’s been ages since she’s actually laughed), and rakes a hand through her hair again, watching his eyes darken slightly. “Depends,” she rasps, her throat still slightly raw from inhaling too much smoke during the last salt ‘n burn. “You going to teach me how to handle a pool stick like that? Because I’ve got to say, that was pretty damn impressive.”  
  
He edges closer, reaches out his arm to brush against her fingers tapping an unconscious rhythm against the bar. “You don’t know how to play pool?” he drawls, and for some reason she has to bite back a smile. “Well, we can’t have that, now can we, sweetheart?”  
  
Before she can blink, he’s got her hand wrapped in his (and she tries so hard not to swoon like a little schoolgirl) and is pulling her over to the now deserted pool tables.  
  
She smirks at his back.  
  
He's damn good, but she’s better.  
  
*  
  
An hour and three beers later (generously paid for by her green-eyed hustler), he’s teasing her for her apparent lack of hand-eye coordination, and she’s trying to line up her shot (to barely graze the corner pocket) while ignoring the heat of his hand on her hip, and his breath against her neck.  
  
“Come on, honey,” he whispers into her hair, smiling when she trembles. “It’s an easy shot. You can do it.”  
  
She tilts her head to look at him. “You know, I just realized… I don’t even know your name.”   
  
“Tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine.”  
  
She grins when he presses his lips to her bare shoulder, and turns her eyes back to the table. “My name’s Dre Connelly.”  
  
He whispers ‘Dean Winchester’ against her throat, and this time, her fumbled shot isn’t on purpose.  
  
(“oh, dear god”, is all she can think.)  
  
*  
  
“Dean Winchester,” she sighs. “God, why did it have to be Dean freakin’ Winchester?”  
  
She grips the cold porcelain sink harder, and just focuses on breathing. (can’t be. won’t be. won’t let it be… it’ll never work.) She inhales, and then holds her breath… doesn’t exhale until she starts getting dizzy. Repeats the process until her heartbeat slows back down.  
  
Finally, she forces herself to open her eyes. She glares at her reflection, because she shouldn’t look the same when her whole world has just been turned upside down. She feels so different.  
  
Everything is so damned different now.  
  
*  
  
Except it's not so different at all.  
  
He’s waiting for her at the pool table, perched on the edge, his cue stick in one hand, and a bottle in the other. She feels butterflies in her stomach, but it’s almost a pleasant feeling when combined with her racing heart and… (oh god, oh god… it’s already happening.)  
  
Dean looks so… lost. (then she realizes how bad her quick attempt at an escape must have come across… but he was still there. he was still waiting.) He looks up as she steps in between his legs, smirks when she grabs his beer and takes a drink.  
  
She can’t help herself… it just feels so… natural to step in closer, to slip her arms over his shoulders. When she smiles, he slides his hand back onto her hip. “Everything alright?” he murmurs as she leans in to place a kiss on the corner of his mouth.  
  
“Fine,” she whispers back. “Hey, that, uh, that Impala out front… that’s your car, isn’t it?” she inquires with an impish grin.  
  
He quirks an eyebrow. “How’d you know?”  
  
“You just seem the type.” She shrugs. “Anyway, how’d you like to do a little wager, Dean Winchester?” (amazingly, she even managed to say it without flinching.)  
  
“Hm. What’s the wager?” he asks, curious despite (or maybe in spite of) the feeling that he’s about to get in over his head.  
  
She beams, and steps back, picking her cue stick off the table. “If I miss this next shot -” she plasters herself back up against his side, presses her lips against his ear, “- I’ll blow you in the back seat of your car.”  
  
She grins when Dean shudders. “And, uh, what happens if you make it?”  
  
“If I make it,” she breathes, “then I get to take your car for a ride.” He opens his mouth to protest right away, but stops when she put a finger over his lips. “And then I’ll blow you in the back seat.”  
  
His eyes darken, and she knows she’s already won.  
  
*  
  
It’s a ridiculously easy shot.  
  
Dean doesn’t take his eyes off her at all as she lines it up.  
  
“You were fuckin’ hustling me!” he laughs when she sinks it.  
  
She just grins, and makes sure to brush against him as she heads for the door.  
  
At the door she throws a smirk over her shoulder and twirls his keys in her hand.  
  
“You coming or not, Winchester?”  
  
*  
  
Two days of talking, laughter, and some damn amazing sex later, and the guilt finally starts to set in as she slips her jacket on and looks down at him sleeping peacefully.  
  
He’s happier than he’s been in months (since his brother left, since he stopped being needed).  
  
She’s dying inside, because she knows what she just got them into.  
  
It isn’t fair to either of them, but then again, when has it ever been fair?  
  
It if was fair, they never would’ve met.  
  
It’s that, more than anything that makes her cry as she opens the door.  
  
“Until next time, baby.”  
  
She doesn’t look back.


	7. To Fight A Losing Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Right, well, you keep doing that whole caveman thing, and I'm going to go do a little research on this thing," she says, grabbing the file back. "Go do your own leg work, Johnny. This is mine."
> 
> She walks over to a motorcycle parked a few spaces ahead of his truck. "Unless you wanna try working this thing together," she calls over her shoulder. "I promise my reflexes have improved significantly. I can actually hit the broad side of a barn now."
> 
> He rolls his eyes, and pulls his door open. "I'll follow you. Try not to kill yourself on that deathtrap on the way."
> 
> Her laughter rings in his ears as he slams the door shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Supernaturally influenced suicide. Please skip if you feel you can't handle that.

John's had a bad week.  
  
First, his contact chickens out on him. Then his truck gets a flat. Then it starts raining, while he's trying to change the tire. And that's all on Monday.  
  
Tuesday, he couldn't get ahold of Dean for seven and a half hours. Boy has no idea how close his father was to a heart attack.  
  
Wednesday, Bobby threatened to shoot him. Again.  
  
Scratch that. John's had a fucking terrible week.  
  
All he wanted, for once, was a nice simple salt'n'burn so he could actually get a decent night’s sleep for the first time in a while.  
  
Instead, he got her. Again.  
  
*  
 **Montgomery, Alabama**  
 **Thursday, July 17th, 2003**  
 **3:44 PM**  
  
It's raining again as John pulls his truck up to the police station. He sighs and digs out his box of IDs, pulling out the fake FBI badge. This case was all over the place.  
  
Three victims. Christ.  
  
He climbs out, and slams the door behind him, making his way across the street.  
  
The woman behind the desk looks like she's having about as great of a day has he is. And that means that his job just got a little more difficult.  
  
"Hi, I'm Agent Butler," he says, flashing the badge at her quickly. "I need the file on..."  
  
The woman holds up a hand to silence him. "You partner is already in back."  
  
He thinks he manages to hide his surprise pretty well. He hopes anyway. "Oh. I didn't know they were already here."  
  
She nods. "Yes, Agent Alston got here about ten minutes ago. She said you might show up. Actually, here she comes now," she says, looking over his shoulder.  
  
He turns, and actually flinches when the small, dark haired girl stalks out of the back room, scowl pasted firmly on her face. "Howdy, partner. Glad you could finally pull yourself outta your bottle long enough to make it into work," she says.  
  
"Now, just a minute..."  
  
She shakes her head, earrings jangling quietly. "No, not "just a minute". Look, man, I get this divorce is hitting you hard, but I ain't covering for your sorry ass anymore," she hisses, jabbing a finger at his chest. "I happen to like my job too damned much to let your problems ruin it for me! Get your act together, or I'll tell the boss I'm ready for a new partner. Capisce?"  
  
She shoves past him to the door, holding up a file as she goes. "I already got what we needed, so let's blow this popsicle stand."  
  
He flashes a tight smile at the woman behind the desk, and turns to follow.  
  
She's standing on the curb, back to him, and she doesn't flinch when he grabs her arm and drags her across the street to his truck. "What the hell was that?" he exclaims, shoving her back against it.  
  
She goes easily, a lazy grin curling her lips. "Oh, come on, Johnny. Don't tell me you don't recognize me."  
  
She's familiar, but it's that grin that hits him. That "I'm too awesome for you to stay pissed at" grin that his eldest son spent years perfecting, but with a tinge of madness to it that he knows he's seen before.  
  
He sighs, loosening his grip on her arm and taking a step back. "So, the little thief is back."  
  
When Dre throws her head back and laughs, it has that same edge of madness to it. It conjures images of black and fire eyes.  
  
"Please, you were totally asking for it," she says, brown eyes dancing. "If you had just shown a little respect for my talents, then I wouldn't have had to prove them to you. Besides, you have to admit that you're just a little bit relieved to know that I'm still kicking."  
  
John scoffs, and tugs the file out of her hand. "How long you been working this case?"  
  
She grins again, crossing her arms across her chest. "Fine, fine. We can talk business, but you will admit that you're relieved eventually," she says. "I've been here a couple of days. I heard of a few unusual deaths that the local LEOS labeled suicide, witness stories that aren't adding up, and accounts of the dead loved ones showing up at their own funeral," she says, pulling off her fitted suit jacket. "I'm thinking it's some kind of death omen, probably."  
  
John just grunts, flipping through the file of the most recent victim. Twenty three year old Scott Taggart drove his car into a telephone pole. Not unusual, until the boyfriend, Trevor Maddox, tells the cops that Scott suddenly swung the car around in the middle of a conversation and drove right into the pole. It wasn't an accident, and Trevor swears up and down that Scott was not and never had been suicidal.  
  
"Right, well, you keep doing that whole caveman thing, and I'm going to go do a little research on this thing," she says, grabbing the file back. "Go do your own leg work, Johnny. This is mine."  
  
She walks over to a motorcycle parked a few spaces ahead of his truck. "Unless you wanna try working this thing together," she calls over her shoulder. "I promise my reflexes have improved significantly. I can actually hit the broad side of a barn now."  
  
He rolls his eyes, and pulls his door open. "I'll follow you. Try not to kill yourself on that deathtrap on the way."  
  
Her laughter rings in his ears as he slams the door shut.  
  
*  
  
 **4:21 PM**  
  
"So far, it looks like there have been three victims. No connection between them that I can find, except that they're all in their early twenties, supposedly killed themselves and then were later seen alive by at least one person at their own funeral," Dre says, looking through the news reports online. "The first one was Danny Sherman. He was twenty-two, and was out on a double date with his girlfriend Alexis, his best friend Ryan and Ryan's girlfriend Madlyn. According to them, he just stopping talking all of a sudden, got up and walked right off one of those little stone garden bridges and bashed his brains out on the rocks below."  
  
The motel room is small and familiar, but the heeled boots by the door and the bra he can see hanging off the shower bar in the bathroom are throwing him off. He's not used to being around women anymore.  
  
Especially ones that he knows have slept with his son.  
  
\- _flash_ -  
  
 **October 13th, 2001**  
 **7:41 AM**  
  
Dean saunters into the diner same way he always does, boots scuffed and collar popped, a wink and smirk for the pretty waitress, and an easy smile for his old man. However, the soft curl of his lips doesn't fade away as he opens up his menu and fiddles with his coffee cup.  
  
John knows his son's morning-after persona far too well, and this is and isn't it.  
  
Usually he's upbeat and chipper, tired but not really feeling it, flying high on endorphins. Right now, it's there, but soft and muted, and the only exhaustion John can read on the boy's face is that of a long, overnight drive.  
  
"So, who is she?"  
  
Dean's eyes fly up, and he's smile starts to grow before he catches himself and smothers it behind a lazy smirk. "Who's who?"  
  
John laughs, flipping the journal shut as the waitress returns to fill up their cups. "The girl who was obviously memorable enough to have that smile on your face days after the fact."  
  
To his father's amusement, Dean actually blushes and ducks his head as that smile takes over again.  
  
"Is it really that obvious?" Dean asks, rubbing a hand over his face.  
  
John just quirks an eyebrow at him.  
  
Dean huffs out a laugh, and leans forward, elbows on the table. "I met her at a bar, in Boise. You should've seen her, Dad. Black, knee-high boots, leather jacket. Dark hair, darker eyes. She hustled me at pool," he says with a grin. "Plus, she loved the Impala."  
  
He grins back. "She sounds just about your type. What was her name?"  
  
Dean leans back again, and that soft smile is back as he says "Deirdre Connelly."  
  
He completely misses the shock that colors John's face.  
  
\- _flash_ -  
  
A delicate hand waving in front of his face snaps him back to the present.  
  
"Earth to Johnny," she singsongs, as she leans back in her chair. "You just totally missed everything I said, didn't you?"  
  
John blinks, trying to see what it was about this kid that had his son so enraptured.  
  
She sighs, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. "Like I was saying, before you zoned out on me, at first I thought it might be a death omen, but it doesn't quite fit. When I talked to the second victim’s family, the little sister mentioned that Sidney had said something about seeing herself in a new light. I thought that maybe she had some kind of trauma that changed her point of view or something of the sort, but nothing. Then I realized what if she was talking literally?"  
  
"Meaning what, exactly?" John asks, pulling Sidney Avery's file over to him.  
  
Dre grins and spins her laptop around, revealing a webpage about doppelgangers.  
  
"I mean," she says, "that she was literally seeing herself. In some mythologies, seeing your own doppelganger is a death omen. It's also said that they can mean bad luck or illness, and they have a tendency to give "advice" to their victims, but more often than not, it's misleading or malicious. They can plant ideas in the person's head. Like, for instance, stepping off a stone bridge into two feet of water, or driving your car into a phone pole."  
  
John flips the file closed and looks up at her. "So, I guess we're going hunting."  
  
*  
  
 **5:57 PM**  
  
Dre's insistent that she knows where the thing is going to be, and if John doesn't completely believe her, he doesn't say anything.  
  
After all, she was there first. Technically, it's her hunt.  
  
They pull up in front of a large, two-story house with a wraparound porch and balcony. John stares at the well-tended flower gardens before turning to Dre. "Well?"  
  
She pulls out her shotgun, and checks the safety. "These things are pretty much ghosts, except they're more future than past. So, hopefully, they'll be put out of their misery same way any other ghost would be. Iron, salt, fire," she says, turning to grin at him. "Should be a piece of cake."  
  
They had just climbed out of the truck and had shut the doors when they hear screaming from around back. Dre takes off at a run, John at her heels.  
  
"Mckenna Rowan, just what do you think you're doing? Get down from there, right now, young lady!"  
  
There's another garden in back, and there's a group of elderly woman swarming around. One is down on the ground, sobbing, and several others gather around her. The others are staring up at the house, a few clutching at their chests while muttering under their breath. Dre and John look up, and there's a young, red headed girl standing up on the railing of the second floor balcony.  
  
"And we can add "trying to see if you can fly" to the list," Dre says, as she point behind the girl, where another girl is standing just inside the door.  
  
Or, the same girl, really.  
  
"Crap," Dre mutters, as she pokes John's arm. "You talk to her. Try to keep her from jumping, while I get upstairs. Maybe I can get this thing from behind."  
  
"Wait, Deirdre," John starts to say, but she's already shouldering her way past the older women, and to the house. "God, I hope this ends better than our last hunt," he whispers to himself, before making his way over to the woman who is still yelling at the girl on the balcony.  
  
"Mckenna!"  
  
*  
  
Dre (finally) finds the room where the doppelganger should be, and peers in carefully. From here, she can here the thing whispering, but can't really make out any words.  
  
There's no fear in the air. Just emptiness.  
  
She pushes the door open as quietly as she can, flinching when it squeaks slightly. The doppelganger doesn't appear to hear it though and she moves into the room, heading slowly toward the old fireplace. Grabbing the iron poker (thinking firing a gun while there's a kid standing on the ledge isn't such a hot idea), she quickly slashes it through the doppelganger, and dives through the door to get her arms around the girl and drag her down to the floor.  
  
She hears a loud "Oh, thank god" from outside, but gets sidetracked when the girl in her arms starts fighting.  
  
"No, god, please. You have to let me. You have to!" she cried, scratching at Dre's arms. Dre curses under her breath, and attempts to maneuver them enough that she can get to the girl's pressure points.  
  
John and one of the older women burst through the door just as the girl goes still.  
  
*  
  
 **7:06 PM**  
  
It took a while to calm Mckenna down. Even longer to get the whole story out of her. Apparently, the doppelganger had been there for weeks, whispering in her ear. Unfortunately, she can't (or won't, more likely) tell them exactly what it said or showed her. She just knows that she had to get up on that balcony. Didn't make anyone feel better that the whole time she was talking to them, she was staring out the window, at said balcony, with a longing expression on her face.  
  
It doesn't help them a whole lot, but they figure if they wait long enough, the doppelganger should show back up to finish the job.  
  
These bastards usually do.  
  
*  
  
 **11:09 PM**  
  
Elsa Rowan, Mckenna's grandmother, let's them camp out in the back yard, the huge canopy of stars laid out before them.  
  
John's keeping watch right now, eyes glued to the balcony outside of Mckenna's room. They'd put a ladder up a few feet over, for a little easier access if the girl decided she's going to try jumping again. Dre's laying back, hands tucked beneath her head, watching the stars.  
  
"You can ask me, you know," she says.  
  
He doesn't look at her. "Ask you what?"  
  
She laughs softly. "That thing you've been dying to ask me all day."  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about."  
  
She sits up and turns her whole body to face him, legs crossed. She grins. "I call bullshit. You know exactly what I'm talking about."  
  
He glances at her briefly. "You know, don't you?"  
  
The grin falls off her face, and she closes her eyes. "Yes," she whispers. She lays back down, hands folded over her stomach.  
  
"How long?" he asks.  
  
She sucks in a breath, and holds it for a long moment before exhaling. "Forever."  
  
He doesn't move.  
  
She scoffs. "I knew it was someone. I didn't know it was him. I've fought against it so hard... tried to, anyway. But," she trails off, before shrugging.  
  
"But what? You still allowed it to happen, when you knew. He doesn't have a clue," he says back, a hard edge in his voice.  
  
Her laughter this time is tainted with tears. "Go back in time and try not falling in love with Mary, then come talk to me about how I _allowed_ it to happen," she snaps. "You're a dick, John."  
  
He just shrugs, and goes back to watching Mckenna's window.  
  
*  
 **July 18th, 2003**  
 **1:47 AM**  
  
It's Dre's watch when anything interesting finally happens. Interesting meaning Mckenna not climbing up on the balcony railing again, but one John Winchester coming at her with a shotgun.  
  
John's still sleeping on the ground next to her.  
  
"Oh shit," she whispers, careful not to wake him up.  
  
She doesn't know if they have to be awake for the doppelganger to get to them or not, but she's not taking any chances.  
  
She's up and running toward the thing before she can really think it through, cocking her own shot gun and aiming.  
  
It's preparing to dodge a bullet, not an iron throwing-star. It evaporates, and Dre's spinning back around and headed back for John when it appears again.  
  
Right next to John.  
  
Crap.  
  
*  
  
The images flash in his mind:  
  
- _flash_ -  
  
Him, slightly older, surrounded by hospital orderlies, talking with a demon.  
  
No, not a demon.  
  
The demon.  
  
- _flash_ -  
  
Dean, pale and unresponsive, lying in a hospital bed.  
  
- _flash_ -  
  
Hot coffee splashing and Sam kneeling by his side.  
  
Screaming.  
  
- _flash_ -  
  
"I will give you the Colt and the bullet, but you gotta help Dean. You gotta bring him back."  
  
- _flash_ -  
  
"So we have a deal."  
  
"No, John, not yet. You still need to sweeten the pot."  
  
"With what?"  
  
"There's something else I want as much as that gun. Maybe more."  
  
- _flash_ -  
  
"Why, John, you're a sentimentalist. If only your boys knew how much their daddy loved them."  
  
- _flash_ -  
  
Bang bang bang.  
  
*  
  
"John! Goddammit, old man, wake the hell up right now! I'm not going to be the one to tell your son his daddy is dead, ya hear me? John!"  
  
He groans and bats Dre's hands away. "Kind of hard not to hear you when you're screaming in my ear, kid."  
  
"Oh, thank god," she sighs, before smacking him hard on the chest. "Don't scare me like that again, Johnny."  
  
He sits up just in time to see the lights flick on in the house. "What happened?"  
  
Dre stands, and holds out a hand to help him up. "That stupid SOB went after you. Came at me wearing your face. I hit it with iron, but it came back pretty fast. I had to shoot it when I saw it touching you," she says, reloading her shotgun. "Did it do anything? Do you feel... different? Like, maybe you wanna blow your head off, or something?"  
  
John looks down at his own gun, and shakes his head. "Nah, I feel fine. Must not have had enough time."  
  
Dre holds his eyes for a moment, frowning. "Hm, guess not."  
  
"Well, that's not good," John mutters, nodding toward the house where Mckenna is trying to climb up on the railing while her grandmother attempts to hold her back.  
  
They take off at the same time. Dre makes it to the ladder first.  
  
*  
  
 **4:25 AM**  
  
They finally manage to trap the damn thing in a circle of salt until they figure out what to do with it.  
  
"Well, they kind of are the victims, right? Just, from the future," Dre says. "Couldn't we just burn the victim’s bones and see if that does it?"  
  
"But what if it's not? What if it's just some spook or demon or whatever?"  
  
Dre sighs. "Although, right now it's in John's... shape. Form. Persona. Whatever. So... maybe we have to salt'n'burn the body of whoever it's wearing."  
  
"But John's still alive. Can't do that."  
  
"So... maybe we need to give it time to take someone else's form?"  
  
"That means we'd need to let it kill someone else."  
  
"Crap."  
  
John walks up behind her. "Were you... talking to yourself?"  
  
Dre just rolls her eyes.  
  
*  
  
 **6:18 AM**  
  
They don't really have a choice.  
  
She doesn't like it any more than John does, but they have to do something.  
  
Dre breaks the salt line.  
  
*  
  
 **7:04 AM**  
  
John keeps Elsa in the house, and Dre tries not to watch as Mckenna climbs back up on the balcony.  
  
It doesn't make either of them feel better that she's smiling when she jumps.  
  
*  
  
 **7:53 AM**  
  
The doppelganger doesn't even try to stop them when they burn Mckenna's body. It just stands there, wearing her form, staring at John the whole time.  
  
John stares back until the damn thing flickers out of sight.  
  
Dre lays her hand gently on his arm and he tears his eyes away from where it stood.  
  
"You okay there, Johnny?"  
  
He nods slowly, mulling over what the doppelganger had showed him. "I'm fine," he says. "And for god-sake, it's John. Not Johnny."  
  
He dies to save his boy. There are worse ways to go. Dean is strong. He'll keep going. And he'll have Sam with him again.  
  
"Whatever you say, Johnny," Dre laughs, clapping him on the shoulder turning to walk back to the truck. "Mind giving me a lift back to the motel?"  
  
He can't help but smile a little as he follows. If what that goddess told him is the truth, then maybe Dean will have Dre by his side someday, too. She's an annoying little thing, but she has balls. He'll give her that. Maybe enough to take on the Winchester boys.  
  
But that's someday.  
  
Right now, he has a gun to track down and a demon to kill.  
  
Someday will come soon enough.


	8. The Ups and Downs and Ins and Outs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We really going to talk about this right now?" she whispers, pushing up onto her tiptoes to press her lips to his jaw.
> 
> He huffs, loosening his grip on her to allow her to pull his shirt off as well. "We're finishing this conversation later, you know."
> 
> She hooks her arms around his neck and gives him a bright smile. "Sure we will."

Another angry spirit let loose on some tiny, middle of nowhere town, and Dre is so ready to kill something. Or someone, really. People need to learn to take care of their dead properly.  
  
A small town, angry wife killed her small town cheating husband and then offed herself. Text book, really. Or it would be, if there were a “text book” for this job. She should write one. Maybe she could turn a profit.  
  
Stupid cheating husband.  
  
*  
  
She sees the sleek, black monster of a car parked in front of the tiny town’s tiny motel and grins to herself. How the boy doesn’t realize what a dead giveaway his precious Impala is is beyond her.  
  
Dammit. She kind of loves him for it.  
  
She rolls her bike into the tiny town’s tiny diner lot and heads inside, pulling her hood up over her head as she goes.  
  
She’ll get her coffee to-go, because she has the feeling that her boy is going to need a shadow tonight.  
  
*  
  
Dean’s trying to annoy the spirit while his giant friend (his brother, she’s thinking, although the way Dean thought/talked about him made him seem like a hopeless little geek) tries to dig up the grave.  
  
Either it’s not working well enough, or it’s working too well, ‘cause the pissed off spirit of the angry wife just threw Dean into a tree. Hard. _Damn_.  
  
His gun spins off into the dark somewhere, and the spirit is hurling her spectral ass right toward the giant, who is shoveling like crazy with his back turned to the whole shebang.  
  
Dre figures it’s time to step in and cocks her shotgun.  
  
“Hit the deck!”  
  
*  
  
The fire crackles merrily (which in retrospect is always a little creepy, seeing as its bones and not wood cracking) and throws enough light around the cemetery for Dean to find his missing gun with minimal effort.  
  
Probably a good thing, as he’s busy doing a damn impressive impression of a fish at the moment. Dre wouldn’t admit it, but it’s kind of cute.  
  
“Hello to you, too, babe,” she says with a grin and a smack to his ass.  
  
The giant, otherwise known as Sam (or Sammy, according to Dean) huffs out a laugh. “A friend of yours, Dean?”  
  
Dean shifts and scratches at his neck, and Dre could almost swear that he blushes a little when he says, “Kind of. This is, uh, Dre. Connelly. Deirdre Connelly.”  
  
Sam’s eyes go wide, and his grin turns mischievous. “Oh! _Deirdre_. Right. Nice to meet you, Deirdre.”  
  
She looks from Sam’s grinning face to Dean, who is definitely blushing, and shakes her head. “Yeah, I don’t even want to know.”  
  
*  
  
The bar is dim and smoke filled, as always. Some things don’t change, even in small, middle of nowhere towns. Dre kind of likes it, even if the music sucks.  
  
Her, Dean and Sam all crowd into a booth with their drinks, fully intending to celebrate a job done, if not well.   
  
Dre lifts her shot glass in salute. "To one less restless spirit that we have to worry about."  
  
"I'll drink to that," Dean says as he taps his glass against hers with a grin.  
  
Sam stares down at the table. “You know there’ll be another one popping up to take its place tomorrow. There’s never “one less” to worry about.”  
  
Dre rolls her eyes and downs her shot. “Way to kill the mood, Sasquatch.”  
  
Dean just laughs and knocks back his own.  
  
*  
  
They sit in uncomfortable silence when Dean goes to hit the head.  
  
Sam fiddles with his bottle and doesn’t meet Dre’s eyes when he asks, “So, how did you get into hunting anyway?”  
  
Dre’s eyes go cold, and she drags her finger through the ring of condensation left on the table. “Oh, you know, watching my best friend get disemboweled by a ghost and having to burn her corpse might have done the trick.”  
  
Sam nods and goes back to fiddling with his bottle until Dean returns.  
  
*  
  
She's ready when the pounding at the door starts. She'd known since she sauntered out of the bar, flipping up the collar of her leather jacket as she went, that he'd show up. The heat in his eyes, part anger part lust, when she'd thrown out her "in case anyone wants to find me" quip over her shoulder had more than filled her in on that fact.  
  
The second she's got the door unlocked, and the knob turned, he's pushing his way into the room, stepping cleanly over the salt line. He grips her arms tight as he kicks the door shut behind him. "Why didn't you tell me?" he hisses, pressing his mouth against her ear.  
  
She laughs, tipping her head back to grant him better access to her throat. "What can I say? It was my day off, and I didn't feel like shop talk."  
  
Dean scoffs, shoving her back a few steps, before stripping his jacket off. "Right. You obviously knew who I was, and in the three nights we spent together, the fact that you're a hunter too just never came up."  
  
Dre grins, pulling off her shirt, backing into the wall as Dean advances on her. She slides her hands under his shirt as his arms wrap around her waist. "We really going to talk about this right now?" she whispers, pushing up onto her tiptoes to press her lips to his jaw.  
  
He huffs, loosening his grip on her to allow her to pull his shirt off as well. "We're finishing this conversation later, you know."  
  
She hooks her arms around his neck and gives him a bright smile. "Sure we will."  
  
*  
  
Dean isn't very surprised to wake up alone. A bit angry, yes, but not surprised.  
  
And, hey, at least this time she left a note.  
  
" _Sorry for leaving you hanging, but you know how it goes. Places to be and asses to kick. Watch your back and Sam's too, and maybe next time I see you, I won't have to be saving your mighty fine ass._  
 _Dre_ "  
  
*  
  
Sam watches Dean stomp around the room, throwing his clothes haphazardly into his duffle, a scowl fixed firmly on his face.  
  
He'd had a feeling that something like this would happen, but his big brother had been too busy thinking with his downstairs brain to listen to him. It's not like it's the first time that Deirdre Connelly had left Dean sleeping without even saying goodbye after a one-night stand.  
  
Sam fingers the piece of paper Dre had slipped him the night before and debates whether he should tell Dean that they have her number.  
  
Dre's just another girl, after all. Pretty and a hunter, sure, but still. She's just another girl. Dean will get over her in no time at all.  
  
In the end, Sam decides he'll just keep this little piece of information to himself for a while.  
  
She's just another girl.


	9. Complexity In All It's Simplicity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean turns away from the pump and glances over his shoulder at the gas station door, before glaring at Sam. "But that's not what you said," his voice drops to a whisper as Dre exits the store and heads towards them. "You said that we act like an old married couple. But we aren't."
> 
> Sam's brow creases in confusion. "You mean you don't."
> 
> Dean shakes his head and steps in closer to his brother as Dre opens the passenger’s door and drops the bag in. "No. I mean we aren't a couple."

Sometimes, even the most complicated things are simpler then they seem. Sometimes, things are too fragile to handle being labeled. Sometimes, people prefer not having to define their relationships.  
  
Some people.  
  
Sam Winchester hasn’t ever been one of them.  
  
*  
  
"What the hell are you talking about, Sammy?"  
  
Sam rubs his hand over his face, wondering why he thought this was a good idea. Because, apparently, his brother didn't even realize that he was in a relationship, when even a blind person could see it.  
  
Well, Dean has always been blind, deaf and dumb when it came to his own feelings.  
  
"I'm just saying, the way you and Dre act... some people... obviously not you, but... some people would say that you two are dating. At least."  
  
Dean turns away from the pump and glances over his shoulder at the gas station door, before glaring at Sam. "But that's not what you said," his voice drops to a whisper as Dre exits the store and heads towards them. "You said that we act like an old married couple. But we aren't."  
  
Sam's brow creases in confusion. "You mean you don't."  
  
Dean shakes his head and steps in closer to his brother as Dre opens the passenger’s door and drops the bag in. "No. I mean we aren't a couple."  
  
"You boys going to stand there making out, or are we going to get back on the road anytime soon?"  
  
They both look up to see Dre standing with her arms crossed over the roof on the Impala, grinning at them.  
  
Sam forces a smile and shakes his head. "I'm ready to go whenever you guys are."  
  
She sighs wistfully. "Pity. I was hoping to get my own private peepshow."  
  
It should be funny, but neither of them laughs.  
  
*  
  
Dean’s brooding, and Sam’s confused. Dre’s apparently blissfully ignorant, except in all the ways she’s not. She learned about ten hunts ago to let their brotherly bickering run its course. She’ll be of no help getting into Dean’s head right now.  
  
It’s almost scary, how well she knows his brother already. Just another reason why everyone, except them, think they’re dating.  
  
Dre will lean up against Dean’s shoulder as he’s driving, turning her head every so often to press a kiss to his bicep. Dean doesn’t bitch (too much) when Dre changes the song. Dre has started stashing a big bag of M&M’s under the passenger’s seat for those long stretches of road with no gas stations. Dean always ends up sinking his hand into Dre’s hair when she sleeps with her head on his lap.  
  
In Sam’s head, they are the very definition of a couple.  
  
*  
  
In the end, one simple comment causes a hell of a lot of chaos.  
  
*  
  
“Seriously, I cannot do this!”  
  
Sam sighs, wondering what the hell he’s done. Because apparently, Dean isn’t the only one who wasn’t aware he was in a relationship. Dre is right there with him.  
  
Which just emphasized Sam’s whole point; because these two are so into each other, they can’t even see what’s right in front of them.  
  
“What the hell are you talking about, Dre? You and Dean have been dating for months… longer if you count all the ‘one-night-stands’ over the years.”  
  
She stops pacing abruptly in front of him, shaking her head hysterically. “That wasn’t dating. That was fucking. There’s a huge difference,” she exclaims. “Dean and I… we aren’t boyfriend and girlfriend. We’re roommates and partners and... and freakin’ friends with benefits!”  
  
Sam rubs a hand over his face in frustration. “You know that’s not true.”  
  
She sucks in a breath, before sinking down into the chair next to Sam. “I don’t know how to do this… how to be a ‘girlfriend’. I mean, god, I’ve never even been on an actual date before! What if I do something wrong?”  
  
Before he gets a chance to reply, the door slams open, and Dean stomps in, soaked to the bone and juggling a couple bags of food. “Seriously, next time, one of you two lazy asses is going out in that rain,” he gripes, tossing the bags carelessly on Sam’s bed.  
  
Dre gets up and slips into the bathroom, but before she closes the door, she tells Dean to keep the wet stuff off the beds.  
  
Dean mutters something under his breath about nagging women.  
  
Sam resists the urge to hit his head on the table.  
  
*  
  
Dre will pick up Dean’s dirty socks with barely an eye roll and stuff them into his boots at the end of the bed. Dean steals the second pillow off Sam’s bed for Dre, because she prefers using two. The times Sam gets into the shower first after a hard hunt, Dre always lets Dean have it second, even though it means she’ll end up with no hot water. As long as they’re in the hotel room Dean will wear his reading glasses while researching, even though he hates them, because Dre says she likes them on him.  
  
Yet, neither of them thinks they’re dating.  
   
For the life of him, Sam just cannot figure them out.  
  
*  
  
In the end, the date turns out to be a disaster, but Dre and Dean are laughing as they walk into the room.  
  
They’ve already decided to blame Sam for everything.  
  
Sam’s just happy that they’re back to normal… well, as normal as they get, anyway.  
  
And he knows he deserves it when they short sheeted his bed the next night.  
  
*  
  
Dre sleeps with a custom-made throwing star tucked in-between the mattress and box spring. Dean sleeps with his knife tucked into his pillowcase, where he moved it after Dre nicked her hand on it in the middle of the night.  
  
Dre can get Dean to watch a chick-flick movie as long as they’re cleaning their weapons while they do it. Dean can get Dre to watch a horror movie as long as he’ll hold her and not make fun of her for hiding her face in his neck at the scary parts.  
  
Dre will rub Dean’s shoulder until her own hands start cramping up after a particularly long drive. Dean has helped her paint her toenails on more than one occasion when her fingernails where wet.  
  
Dre has quickly become just as important to Dean as Sammy; something he never thought was possible. Dean and Sam are the only people Dre has ever let in enough to think of as family; both the hardest and easiest thing she’s ever done.  
  
*  
  
To them, labels don't mean a goddamn thing.


	10. Some Kind Of Love Story (Part One)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two days until Dean’s deal comes due, and Dre hasn’t moved from his side. Dean hasn’t seemed too keen on moving, either. And secretly, Dre can’t help but think it isn’t fair that they just found each other, just to be torn apart again.
> 
> But, hey, that’s a love story for you, right?

Two days until Dean’s deal comes due, and Sam hasn’t budged from the kitchen table piled with books except for frequent coffee refills and bathroom breaks.  
  
Two days until Dean’s deal comes due, and Bobby has made himself scarce; he’s out of the house before dawn and doesn’t come back in from the salvage yard until hours after the sun has gone to sleep.  
  
Two days until Dean’s deal comes due, and Dre hasn’t moved from his side. Dean hasn’t seemed too keen on moving, either. And secretly, Dre can’t help but think it isn’t fair that they just found each other, just to be torn apart again.  
  
But, hey, that’s a love story for you, right?  
  
*  
  
 **Deal Day**  
  
Dean’s whistling as they walk out to the car, but she can feel his fear. He must be petrified for her to feel it too, because usually she can’t get this much from him. Not unless they’re fighting, or… well, otherwise engaged. The more emotional people are, the more she can pick up. And, lord, is she ever picking up.  
  
Sam is unnervingly silent as he grips her arm, pulling her along, and she’s not getting a whole hell of a lot from him. Not that she ever does, but still… his brother's about to drive to his death. She would have thought that she’d been feeling something more from him. Maybe it’s just shock. If so, she can totally relate to that.  
  
She wasn’t even going to go. Why should she? Why should she have to go and watch helplessly as Dean walked willingly into the arms of his murderess? She soothes herself with the thought that maybe she’ll have the chance to get her hands around that bitch’s throat; teach her what happens when someone tries to steal her boyfriend’s soul.  
  
After all, if she’s going to be forced to go, she might as well make it worth her while.  
  
She’d already said goodbye.  
  
*  
  
The music cuts off abruptly as Dean pulls the keys out of the ignition. The crossroads look even more eerie than usual in the nearly blood red moonlight. Its so cliché that Dre would have laughed, had it been another day, another set of crossroads. Now, it’s just nerve-wracking.  
  
Sam doesn’t move as Dean turns in his seat and holds out the keys to him. He just stares, unblinking, out the window. He’s been ignoring Dean for days, everything already said and nothing worth repeating. Maybe he thinks that if he doesn’t acknowledge that this is happening, that it won’t.   
  
If someone believes in something hard enough… but, then again, maybe not.  
  
Dean sighs and turns farther in his seat, this time to hold the keys out to Deirdre.  
  
She fights down the urge to disregard them like Sammy did, but she knows what this means to Dean. The Impala is his baby (and, Christ, has that had her on the verge of jealousy so many times), and he wants to know that someone he loves is taking care of it. He wants someone he loves to protect the last thing that is purely Dean Winchester.  
  
She holds out her hand and tries not to recoil when cool metal and warm flesh touches it.  
  
He squeezes her hand with a small smile, and then climbs out of the car. Sam follows grudgingly. He’s been following his big brother most of his life. Of course, he’d follow him right to his death.  
  
She doesn’t move until Sam pulls the door open and drags her out. Just like he dragged her here, because he’d follow Dean anywhere, but this is one place he refuses to walk away from alone. Apparently, if he can’t have his brother, he’ll have to settle for his brother’s girlfriend.  
  
Any other day, Dre would crack a joke about their codependency issues.  
  
She sighs as the boys fall into stride and follows, as always, one-step behind them.  
  
*  
  
Its a couple minutes before her watch hits midnight, but the way Dean and Sam keep fidgeting makes it seem like hours.  
  
To her, it was mere seconds.  
  
When the red-eyed bitch arrives on the scene, the boys step forward, side by side. Dre falls back, something nagging at the back of her mind. A wave of icy heat washes over her as she remembers a distant conversation.  
  
“A time to show what you’re made of; what you can _truly_ do.”  
  
She takes another step back, into the shifting shadows, and watches with detached interest as the demon teases and taunts.  
  
Dean’s voice is hard, if weary, when he says, “Let’s just get this over with,” and Sam’s shuddering sigh is loud in the thick, silent air.  
  
When the demon hisses “fine,” and cuffs a tiny hand around the nap of Dean’s neck, pressing her lips to his, Dre doesn’t even flinch.  
  
Dean’s body sags, barely caught by Sam before hitting the ground. Sam’s crying now, and he’s twisted and confused inside. A jumbled tangle of guilt and sorrow and love push at Dre’s mind, but she ignores it, focusing all her attention on the demon.  
  
The demon who’s now standing over Sam, a euphoric grin on her face, red eyes dancing, reaching a hand out to rest on Sammy’s head. Because, after all, a demon is a demon and will do what demons do. They trick, they lie, and they cheat. The bitch believes she’s won and Dre lets the inky glee slide over her skin as a cold smile spreads across her face.  
  
The demon looks up when Dre begins to applaud, slow and sarcastically. It’s not praise, and the look on the bitch's face shows that, oh, she knows it. Her bloody eyes grow wide as Dre takes a step forward, all the while keeping up the mocking rhythm.  
  
“Who the hell are you?” the demon snaps, fear lacing her voice, as her hand falls, unnoticed, from Sam's head. (Sam, who is only aware of his big brother’s rapidly cooling body, cradled in his arms. Sam, who is only aware of the sudden, though not unexpected, void in his life… his heart. the one his brother used to fill, even when Sam didn’t want him to.)  
  
The demon’s mind is in turmoil as she recoils from this… this being, this girl, this human that exudes power unlike any she’s ever felt. How she failed to notice is beyond her. How she let the promise of the two beautiful hunters’ soul distract her that much scares her.  
  
Deirdre steps even closer, circling around Sam and Dean without even glancing at them. "That was one hell of a show, I got to tell you," she says, her tone filled with mirth, but tainted by the icy malice in her eyes. "You know, you almost had me convinced."  
  
Her laugh is anything but warm.  
  
The demon takes a step back, hating that she had to show weakness, but knowing that she couldn't let this creature any closer to her. "Who are you?" she demands for a second time. (and, oh, Dre loves the vein of panic that underlies every move the demon makes.)  
  
Dre just grins.  
  
"I'm simply a messenger," Dre laughs, spreading her arms out wide. "and I'm only here to accept your forfeit. That's all," she croons, though the sound is more terrifying then soothing to the demon’s ears. "After all, you know the rules as well as I do, m'dear."  
  
She ambles closer, reaching out a hand slowly and smirking again as the demon cringes away. "Choose your forfeit: the Game or his soul. You cannot have both," she says, her voice dropping to a whisper.  
  
"And how is anyone going to find out, hm? What, are you going to tell them?" the demon jeers, pasting on a fearless façade, and bats Dre's hand away spitefully. "You are but a human." She sneers at the word.  
  
Dre laughs again, the sound grating at the demon’s nerves. "A human I may be, but I've got a direct link to my Bosses, who have a direct link to your Bosses... and, well, I'd hate to see what happens to you when they find out you're the reason evil must forfeit the entire Game before it even began."  
  
The demon freezes, the thin mask of courage dropping as quickly as it came as she takes in the being’s words. “You’re lying,” she retorts, but it sounds weak even to her own ears.  
  
Dre just shrugs. "If I am or if I’m not, you've made your choice. Have a nice death." She starts to back away when the demon grabs her arm, eyes wide.  
  
"Fine, I'll make you a deal,” she says quickly. “I'll give you back his soul, as long as this doesn't go any further. They don't find out.”   
  
Dre cocks her head, thinking over the deal, and the demon waits, fear sliding down her spine. “Please,” the demons grates out, humiliated at having to beg a human (even one as powerful as this) for anything.  
  
Dre just nods once.  
  
The demon hastily seals her lips over Dre's, just for a split second, but she can feel the power even stronger now. She pulls away as if she'd been burnt. She's changed her mind. She really doesn't want to know what she just went up against.  
  
Deirdre just grins, as the sound of Sam's surprised gasp fills the air. "The deal is done. No one will ever know. I'll make sure of it." Her hands come up and grip the demon's face hard enough to bruise and the grin slips off her face.  
  
"And now that that's done, we can get down to business,” she whispers viciously, darkness seeping into her eyes. “Honey, nobody kills my boyfriend and gets away with it. Understand?" Her already cold gaze drops another notch as her grip tightens even more. "Pass it along," she hisses.  
  
After that, she utters no more words, and no incantations slip past her lips, but the demon starts convulsing. A blood curdling scream breaks free as the demon loses grip on her host, and begins to feel flames lick at her non-existent soul. Dre's expression never changes, even as she hears Dean's confused voice behind her. A few more seconds and darkness loses its battle, the demon screeching as it returns to hell. The body slumps in her arms, and she lowers it slowly to the ground, suppressing a shiver as power seeps out of her, leaving her drained.  
  
She smiles as she hears the creak of Dean’s leather jacket behind her, before promptly passing out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is titled (Part One) because there was suppose be a (Part Two) that I never actually got written.


	11. As Good As Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t worry, pet. I’m not going to hurt you,” It whispers (in a voice that sounds like nails over a chalkboard). “After all, you know the rules as well as I do, m’dear.”
> 
> Dre flinches as her words are thrown back in her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So between the last chapter and this chapter, Dre comes clean about what she knows of her genetics and past, Dean gets upset and drunk and possibly cheats, they make up, they hunt, Dre finds out she's pregnant. And that brings us here.
> 
> See the end notes for trigger warnings.

They stumble over their next hunt accidentally. It seems relatively easy to Dre, as she’s been ghost hunting since she was in her teens, but Dean’s been getting antsy about her being on hunts lately. Both he and Sammy have been dropping not-so-subtle hints about her taking it easier. Sam actually brought up maternity leave once, as if they’re working some fucking nine-to-five job. She always just laughed it off.  
  
Nevertheless, for some reason, after months of indulging her (all the while secretly stealing and hiding her weapons), Dean finally puts his foot down about this. He will not let her go on this hunt, even if he has to tie her to the bed to keep her in the hotel room. Sam manages to talk him out of it.  
  
And even though she knows she’s been slowing down, getting sloppy and putting the boys at unnecessary risk, she still puts up a fight. She has her pride after all. If she just rolls over, and lets Dean have his way without fighting about it, she’ll never be on even ground with him again. She lets him think he’s won, and vows to herself that he’ll never find out that she planned to stay “home” all along.  
  
He doesn’t actually believe her until she gives her word.  
  
As good as gold, right?  
  
She watches with an exaggerated pout as they pack up their gear (and, god, she itches to pick up her bag too, but she refrains. barely). Before walking out the door, Dean leans over the chair she’s slouched in and gives her a peck on the cheek.  
  
And, honestly, the whole “normal” vibe of the act is almost enough to make her sick.  
  
When the hell did she become a housewife?  
  
*  
  
 **Five minutes later**  
  
She’s bored out of her freakin’ skull.  
  
It’s been a little over two years since she’s really been “alone”. She’s used to Dean teasing and Sam brooding. She’s used to Dean’s snarky comments about stupid TV comedies overlaid with annoying track-laughter. She’s used to Sam click-click-clicking away at his keyboard as he tells his brother to turn it down for the hundredth time.  
  
These days she’s not used to the silence.  
  
*  
  
 **Fifteen minutes later**  
  
She’s wondering how long this hunt is going to take.  
  
If something goes wrong, are they going to be used to not having a third set of hands after all this time? Are they in trouble right now while she’s sitting here on her ass doing nothing except eating Sam’s leftover Chinese? (before, he might have killed her for that. these days, he just huffs and puffs, but doesn’t say a thing.) She actually misses him bitching her out.  
  
Do they hate not having her there as much as she hates not being there?  
  
*  
  
 **Twenty minutes after the boys left**  
  
The Chinese is gone, as are the last of Dean’s M&M’s (which he just might kill her for, pregnant or not), and there is officially nothing worth watching on TV anymore. She’s cleaned and re-packed the weapons they (sort of) trusted to leave behind with her. She’s also picked up the mess that inevitably comes with having boys of any age around. And all the while, she’s managed not to pick up the phone and ask if they’re finished yet.  
  
She’s bored and she’s cold.  
  
The cold part, at least, is easily solved.  
  
She unzips Dean’s duffel, and pulls out a one of his sweatshirts. They’re warm and comfortable and smell like Dean, which is really the reason she’s taken to wearing them. It also doesn’t hurt that Dean enjoys seeing her wear his clothes.   
  
It’s a guy thing, apparently.  
  
She’s just zipped the bag up when a cool breeze sweeps through the room, cutting right through the bulky material of the sweatshirt. Only, she doesn’t have a window open. That would just completely defeat the purpose of getting warm.  
  
She turns slowly, and sitting on Sammy’s bed (the one closest to the bathroom, because Dean always silently insists on putting himself between them and danger), not even two feet from where Dre is standing was a woman. If It can be called that.  
  
Her brain works fast, cataloging everything it can, storing it for future reference. The oil black hair and burnt orange eyes; skin shifting between shades of cinnamon and chocolate, ivory and sandstone, all depending on how the light hits. A beauty that’s so sweet, it’s disgusting.  
  
She’s never seen anything like It, and she can’t suppress the shudder the runs through her body.  
  
But, projecting her usual cocky attitude (in a desperate attempt to hide the fact that she’s kind of, sort of freakin’ out here), while scanning the room to pinpoint exactly where her phone is and calculating how long it will take to get to the bag of weapons on the other side of the damn room (not that it would do much good, but she’d feel a hell of a lot more comfortable facing off with this… this Thing, if she has something in her hand), she simply asks “the fuck do you want?”  
  
She blames the damn hormones when her voice breaks on the end of the question.  
  
The Thing merely laughs.  
  
“Don’t worry, pet. I’m not going to hurt you,” It whispers (in a voice that sounds like nails over a chalkboard). “After all, you know the rules as well as I do, m’dear.”  
  
Dre flinches as her words are thrown back in her face.  
  
She moves to step forward, closer to her phone, closer to some kind of connection to Dean, but instead finds herself forced and held up against the wall. The Thing (demon, as Dre realizes belatedly) laughs again, and slowly (sensually, like some kind of wildcat) stands up.  
  
“Now, now; let's not go and do something we shall regret,” the demon croons, leaning in to whisper in Dre's ear. “Wouldn't want to hurt the baby now, would we?”  
  
Dre's eyes widen in shock. It's an instinct to move her hands to her slightly rounded stomach, instinct to protect her unborn child. (Dean's child.) The demon just smiles indulgently, resting one cold hand over Dre's. “Actually, I take that back.”  
  
The hand pushes against hers, forcing them harder against her stomach, and Dre screams as excruciating pain explodes under her hands, spreading out like wildfire. The world goes black, and the last thing she hears is the demon's mocking whisper.   
  
“And you're supposed to be the one to save the world.”  
  
*  
  
The next thing she’s aware of is the sound of a gun being fired, and then something screeching. (and, god knows, she’s been doing this job long enough to know the sound of something supernatural when she hears it, but at the moment, she’s just too damn tired to really care.)  
  
Then she hears the voices.  
  
Sam’s is right next to her head, but Dean’s is a little fainter and is followed quickly by another round of gunfire.  
  
What she really, really wants to know is if one of them caught the plate numbers of the truck that hit her.  
  
She's jerked farther into consciousness when she feels hands on her, twisting her, picking her up (and Dean's hands aren't the big, so they’ve got to be Sammy’s) and then the world is moving. She vaguely hears Sam say something about blood, but beyond that... everything's blurry, and she just wants to go back to sleep.  
  
Then she's being set down (none too gently either and she can’t help but wonder what the hell is up Sam's ass) and she’s about to let herself sink farther into the darkness when a hand smacks lightly against her face. “Stay with me, Dre. Don't go to sleep yet, alright?”  
  
She opens her eyes slightly, just enough to see Dean hovering above her, the blur of passing scenery in the window behind him, before a wave of dizziness hits her.  
  
The world fades out again, Dean's voice barely discernible above the static in her head, but she can feel the anger, the worry, and fear in his voice. Sam's slightly harder to get a read on, always has been (must be the psychic thing), and his voice comes from farther above her. He must be driving. And in a hurry too, which is so unlike Sam.  
  
She's slipping back into the darkness, barely hearing or feeling Dean anymore. Dean is fine. He's right there with her, and he can take care of himself. She can sleep.   
  
She doesn't feel Dean smack her face again, or hear his voice crack when he asks Sam how much farther to the hospital.  
  
*  
  
The next time she opens her eyes, it's to a white ceiling.  
  
Instinct tells her to sit up, check her surroundings, locate the exits and calculate the time it'll take to get from where she is, to where safety might be. She doesn't get to finish the sweep of the room, though, because her eyes lock with Dean's, and she can’t help but shudder. (a vague sense of déjà vu washes over her, but it’s fleeting, and she can't pin it down.)   
  
His eyes are dead. Cold. Empty.  
  
“Dean,” she whispers, but he just shakes his head as he stands. He picks up the plastic cup from the stand by the bed, and hands it to her. Her hands are shaking. His aren't. “Baby,” she whispers again, but that just causes him to jerk away from the hand she reaches out toward him.  
  
His voice is gruff when he asks if her head is hurting still.  
  
She shakes her head, making an effort not to wince as her neck stiffens up. “What happened?” she whispers, flinching when he looks at her with those empty eyes again.  
  
He scoffs, and runs a rough hand over his face. “You don't remember? Well, that's just fucking great, Dre,” he whispers, but it hits her like a scream. (he's never sounded this angry at her before. never, never.)  
  
He turns away from her, lacing his fingers behind his head, and she could swear (god, tell her it's not true) that she hears him choke back a sob. “You promised, Dre. You give me your word,” his voice is dripping, soaked in pain, in anger, and for the life of her, she can't piece together what he means.  
  
She’s shaking her head when he looks back at her (god, he looks so broken), tears streaming down his face. "Dean, what do you mean?" she asks, getting frantic (hating this look on him). "You mean staying in the hotel? Dean, I never left!"   
  
She's crying now, too.  
  
Then it all hits her (not the memory of what happened, exactly, but what's missing. what has him looking like this). "The baby?" she whispers, her voice just as broken as he looks.  
  
His look says it all.  
  
It's then, as she averts her eyes to avoid Dean's heartbreaking gaze, that she see it. Her pile of clothes. Not the clothes she was wearing, not Dean's worn-out sweatshirt and her pajama pants. Her hunting clothes. Bloodstained cargo pants, fitted black tank top, soft, worn leather jacket. Her fucking combat boots.   
  
She suddenly feels like she's going to be sick.   
  
(oh god, it can't be.)  
  
How did this happen? How did she end up here, in her hunting clothes, with Dean accusing her of breaking her promise? (god, he's never, ever going to trust her again. but she didn't do it. she wouldn't.) She wouldn't put her baby in danger. Dean has to know that... except Dean just turned and walked out the door.  
  
She's frozen, broken (no, she's fucking shattered, and her heart just walked away from her). She can't even find the tears to cry now. (“its shock,” a voice whispers in her head. “it's just shock, Deirdre. breathe through it, baby girl, just breathe.”) She closes her eyes and tries to remember what happened, because she knows that while the evidence is damning, she wouldn't, couldn't have done this.  
  
She remember a gust of cold coming through the closed window, crappy television that no one even watches, something exploding, white hot and scorching. But her hands were freezing, while the rest of her went up in flames. She remembers nails across a chalkboard, and the vile smell of rotting corpses mixed with sweet, cheap perfume.  
  
She remembers, (" _and you're supposed to be the one to save the world_ ,") but she just can't grasp it. She remembers, (" _wouldn't want to hurt the baby_ ,") but she doesn't know how to explain. She remembers, (" _you know the rules as well as I do_ ,") but it hurts. She remembers, (" _don't worry, pet. I'm not going to hurt you_ ,") but no one's going to believe her.  
  
She looks down, still clutching the plastic cup in her hands, and in a fit of frustration, she hurls it across the room. It does nothing to nothing to loosen the knot in her stomach. It was a demon, and they don't play fair. They're trying to break her... no. God, no.  
  
They're trying to break Dean.   
  
And they'll succeed, if she can't make him believe her, trust her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Miscarriage.
> 
> Guh, I forgot how much this chapter hurts.


	12. Going Through Stages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Approximately three days in, if she's counting the amount of times Bobby's brought in food or snacks for her right, she gets past overwhelmed and numb and falls head first into anger.
> 
> The book in her hand ends up taking the brunt of it when it is slammed again the far wall.
> 
> The next time he brings food, Bobby also brings a tumbler of whiskey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter, Dre lost the baby. Sam and Dean had found her passed out at their hunt site, and Dean isn't convinced that she didn't break her break her promise. The the boys went off on their own, and went to Bobby to lick her wounds and grieve.
> 
> In the manner of hunters everywhere, that means hunting down the demon who fucked it all up in the first place.

Bobby welcomes her with an open library and lots of coffee.  
  
At that moment, hot coffee warming her hands and a world of research in front of her, she doesn't think she's ever wanted to kiss someone more. So she does.  
  
Underneath her numbness and anger, she thinks it's somewhat cute that he blushes.  
  
*  
  
She's a little overwhelmed when she sees the sheer amount of books that make up The Singer Library.  
  
Nevertheless, she figures that the best way to start is just to goddamn start, so she picks up the first book she touches.  
  
It's better than nothing.  
  
*  
  
She doesn't keep track of how long she sits there, sifting through Bobby's horde of books, but she's a little surprised when Bobby comes in with a grilled cheese sandwich and a glass of milk.  
  
"You need to eat," is all he says before he turns and walks back out.  
  
*  
  
Approximately three days in, if she's counting the amount of times Bobby's brought in food or snacks for her right, she gets past overwhelmed and numb and falls head first into anger.  
  
The book in her hand ends up taking the brunt of it when it is slammed again the far wall.  
  
The next time he brings food, Bobby also brings a tumbler of whiskey.  
  
*  
  
Five days, six hours and twenty-seven minutes in (she finally realized that there was a clock on the wall behind her), and the anger finally starts to simmer down. It's not gone completely, and every time she catches sight of anything orange, she wants to scream. However, she's finally able to step out of the world of books and into Bobby's kitchen.  
  
Bobby's table is cluttered with even more books, something she didn't think possible, and Bobby himself is pouring over three of them at once. She's impressed.  
  
"Deirdre."  
  
She shoots him a weak smile as she sinks down into the chair across from him. "Hi."  
  
"So… you maybe want to tell me what exactly I'm supposed to be looking for here?"  
  
Dre stares at him for a moment, before she burst out laughing.  
  
Before long, it turns into crying.  
  
*  
  
After her breakdown, where she poured out everything that had happened, Bobby gets her set up in his spare room. The room that, once again, seems to become hers when something happens.  
  
Escape from psycho lunatic with a concussion and broken arm? Crash in Bobby's guest room. Boyfriend finds out you're "destiny", freaks out and cheats on you? Crash in Bobby's guest room with a tub of ice cream. Some demon bitch kills your unborn child and the love of your life abandons you? Crash in Bobby's guest room with a shitload of books.  
  
And that just makes her want to cry all over again.  
  
She grabs a book at random and starts reading instead.  
  
*  
  
She's so involved in her research that she barely notices the soothing breeze that curls through the stuffy room.  
  
But she is a hunter, and she has understandably been on edge lately, and the knife is out of the sheath and flying before she registers the movement.  
  
It freezes, hovering in midair.  
  
The figure before her unnerves her. Not because of familiar comfort that washes over her, or the feeling of power she can sense, but the fact that, despite being the person from her dreams ("Verdandi," flows through her mind, as gentle and as angry as a rolling wave), she's... ordinary.  
  
Stormy gray eyes stare back at her, and she could almost swear she sees amusement sparkling in them.  
  
"You seemed... bigger... in my dreams," the words slip through her lips before she can stop them. She shakes out of her daze quickly, and turns back to her research, muttering under her breath "What are you doing here anyway?"  
  
Verdandi laughs, thunder rolls and angels sing, and Dre screws her eyes shut, digging her palms in hard in her frustration. "You summoned me," Verdandi replies, and Dre sighs in relief when no musical instruments or nails-across-a-chalkboard echo in her ears.  
  
Dre just glares and Verdandi turns to smile at her.  
  
"Yeah, you always did hate it when I did that," Verdandi says, sitting down on the bed next to her "daughter".  
  
Verdandi grins when Dre just continues to glare (or staring in awe and trying not to show it). "Well, did you want something, or did you just call me here to stare?"  
  
Dre sighs, and stands abruptly. "I didn't call you here. I didn't call you at all. I don't need you at all," she sneers.  
  
Now it's Verdandi's turn to sigh. "Honey, I know you're hurting right now, but is that any way to treat the entity who gave you life?"  
  
Now, Dre's never actually wondered about her "mother". She's always had more pressing things to worry about then the fact that the woman who gave birth to her (and the "woman" who created her) left her in an orphanage.  
  
She decided long ago that she didn't need a mother.  
  
She was and is more the able to take care of herself, and that was the whole point of this to begin with, right?  
  
Verdandi's words piss Dre off... as Verdandi knew they would.  
  
She whirls around and shoves a finger in Verdandi's face. "Don't pull that crap with me, mother," (the word is filled with anger, pain, disgust... sadness) "I don't need you. I never needed you... but, you know, the one time I might've needed you... needed a mother... you were nowhere to be found."  
  
Verdandi reaches up and grasps Dre's hand in hers, and Dre flinches, still feeling (expecting) the cold, rotting flesh of the last "woman" to touch her. She presses her lips to the back of Dre's hand. "I am sorry you had to go through that, Deirdre," she whispers "But it had to happen."  
  
Dre tries to tug her hand away (pride fighting with need, longing for a caring touch fighting with the need to vent her anger and pain), but Verdandi holds tight.  
  
"Why?" Dre whispers, the broken pieces of her voice dragging like glass across her throat. "Why did it have to happen? Why'd he have to leave? Why do I always have to lose everything I care about?"  
  
Verdandi stands up, letting go of Dre's hand and wrapping her arms around her broken daughter. "To make you stronger. To give you purpose. To give not only you and Dean, but the entire world a chance at a future," she whispers into Dre's hair.  
  
"Look at me," she says, grasping Dre's chin, forcing her to meet Verdandi's gaze. "I know you don't understand right now, but you will. I promise you, if you want it enough, it'll be worth it in the end. But right now… right now we have a demon to hunt down." She smiles when Dre's dark eyes narrow at this. "Let me help you, m'dear. That's why I'm here."  
  
After a long minute Dre nods. "Let's go hunting."  
  
*  
  
Hunting is postponed when Dre opens the bedroom door, and Bobby immediately shoves a gun in Verdandi's face.  
  
"Shit, Bobby! No need for that," Dre exclaims. "She's not dangerous… well, not really. Mostly. Maybe."  
  
Bobby's look is piercing. "Oh yeah, because that makes me feel better."  
  
Dre sighs. "Bobby Singer, Verdandi," she says pointing to the goddess behind her. "Verdandi, Bobby Singer. Now that we all know each other, can we please get back to hunting this demon bitch?"  
  
*  
  
Back in the library, and Dre is getting a little annoyed.  
  
It's amazing how much like children a who-knows-how-many-centuries old goddess and a fully-grown man can act.  
  
"Stop touching me!"  
  
"I'm just trying to read the book, Robert."  
  
"You're breathing down my neck."  
  
"Well, I'm not trying to."  
  
"Yes, you are."  
  
"No, I am not."  
  
"Yes, you are."  
  
"No, I am…"  
  
"Both of you! Stop it! Now!"  
  
*  
  
Finally peace and quiet. Back in her room.  
  
Sleep comes almost too easily, but she's too busy drifting to care.  
  
“Don’t worry, pet. I’m not going to hurt you."  
  
“Wouldn't want to hurt the baby now, would we?”  
  
“After all, you know the rules as well as I do, m’dear.”  
  
“And you're supposed to be the one to save the world.”  
  
"You promised. You gave me your word."  
  
"You promised."  
  
"I never want to see you again."  
  
She wakes up choking on a scream.  
  
*  
  
"Deirdre, darling, you need to tell me what exactly you saw," Verdandi whispers.  
  
"No."  
  
"Deirdre, I can't help you if you don't tell me."  
  
"It hurts."  
  
"I know it does, baby girl. I know. But we need to know."  
  
"Orange… her eyes were orange."  
  
"Oh, dear."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I fear that much. Deirdre... this demon. She's more powerful than anything you've ever come across before. Her name is Rajani. She's the sister of the Azazel, or the yellow-eyed demon, as the brothers call him. She is Satan's daughter. She's your aunt."  
  
*  
  
Deirdre doesn't sleep anymore.  
  
She reads.  
  
Bobby provides her with coffee laced with whiskey.  
  
Verdandi provides annoyance that keeps her from losing her mind.  
  
She knows…. she's going to bring this demon bitch down, once and for all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not completely in love with the ending of this chapter. But the gist is Verdandi is one of the three goddesses of Destiny, being the Present. Her sister Urd is the Past and Skuld is the Future. Verdandi "created" Deirdre's soul, and choose her birth mother to carry it. Carrying the soul of a demi-goddess in her attracted the attention of Azazel, who raped her and got her pregnant. Hence Dre being goddess/demon/moral.


	13. A Goddess's Lullaby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Morning, Robert," Verdandi croons from where She leans against the door jam.
> 
> Bobby barely spares Her an irritated glare before turning his attention to Dre. "She's still here, huh?"
> 
> Dre drops herself into the chair next to him, taking a cautious sip of her coffee before she nods solemnly. "So it seems. She's like one of those annoying little flies that won't leave you alone no matter how many times you swipe at it."
> 
> Verdandi laughs and Bobby hides his grin behind his mug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Past and Future collide. Or, ya know, family reunion.

Dre wakes to a hand carding through her hair and a lullaby in the air.  
  
She can feel the binding of the book she'd been reading digging into her cheek, and groans, eliciting a tisk from the goddess standing next to her. "Third time this week you've fallen asleep reading, sweetheart," She says as Dre sits up and rubs at her sore eyes. "You should try to get some proper rest," She scolds, tugging lightly on the younger woman's hair. "You need your strength, should Rajani make her next move."  
  
Dre sighs in response. "I know that, but how am I supposed to go up against her with what we've got? You said yourself that you don't know what she's been up to since my "conception"," she mumbles, wearily gesturing quotation marks. "I don't want to die just because I didn't do my homework."  
  
Before Verdandi can reply, a 'ding' from the kitchen catches Dre's interest. "Oh, coffee," she sighs wistfully as she pushes herself out of the chair and slinks toward the next room.  
  
Bobby's just sitting himself down at the table, where an old leather bound book is laying open.  
  
"Morning, Robert," Verdandi croons from where She leans against the door jam.  
  
Bobby barely spares Her an irritated glare before turning his attention to Dre. "She's still here, huh?"  
  
Dre drops herself into the chair next to him, taking a cautious sip of her coffee before she nods solemnly. "So it seems. She's like one of those annoying little flies that won't leave you alone no matter how many times you swipe at it."  
  
Verdandi laughs and Bobby hides his grin behind his mug.  
  
*  
  
A couple hours later and Dre is ready to set all of Bobby's precious books on fire.  
  
Dre slams down the old tome she was reading, grimacing when dust flies up.  
  
There is next to nothing on Rajani. Pyrrhus has more references than Rajani, and he has hardly any. Azazel has the most out of all of them, and his are still hard to come across.  
  
She has managed to find a few things on Verdandi, but that doesn't help her right now. Verdandi is… well, Verdandi. She's always there. Just… there. Annoying, but somehow comforting. Plus, Bobby's new guard puppy seems to love Her, if all the tail wagging is any indication.  
  
Dre sighs and scrubs a hand through her hair. She can feel that something is coming. Something big. Probably bad. Nevertheless, it's coming, fast, and she's not ready. She's not ready to face whatever threat it is. If she's honest with herself, she doesn't think she'll ever be ready. At least, not on her own. Not without…  
  
"Don't sulk, Deirdre. It's very unbecoming."  
  
Dre looks up and glares at the stunningly blonde woman standing in front of the window. "Don't tell me what to do, bitch."  
  
Skuld laughs, the sound unsettling. "You're acting like a child. Granted, you are one, but still, it's unbecoming of a warrior," she rebukes.  
  
"Leave the child alone, Sister. She has the right to grieve," another voice cuts in, the sound of a pages turning humming gently in time with it.  
  
Dre groans. "What, are we having a family reunion now?"  
  
Urd steps up behind Dre's chair and rests a tiny hand on her shoulder. "We only wish to help."  
  
Deirdre stands and turns to face Her. "Help? You call this help?" she hisses. "I can't even think when ya'll are here! And it's not as if you have anything useful to share about that demon bitch, nothing I can use to send her ass back to Hell! So, tell me, dear aunt, what can you do to help?"  
  
Skuld scoffs, waves crashing against the shore, and stalks up behind Dre. "For one, you could listen. Not just to us, but to yourself," she says. "You seem to wish to forget that there is more to you than meets the eye, devika. What you are." She plants a slender, pale hand over Dre's heart. "What you are isn't a curse, love. It's a gift. Use it wisely and you'll have nothing to fear."  
  
*  
  
Days pass in a flurry of pages and lack of sleep.  
  
When she does close her eyes, sickly orange stares back at her.  
  
So, she reads.  
  
She reads of ancient demons and their victims.  
  
She reads of soulless monsters seeking bloodshed.  
  
She reads of spells and tricks and flames that lick.  
  
She reads of hunts that hunt for innocent blood.  
  
She reads of precautions that reek of divine intervention.  
  
She reads of names and places that make her smile.  
  
*  
  
"It’s a safe house. Two hunters created it in the late sixteen hundreds, during the Salem Witch Trials. Mathew Chase and Aaron Hayward. Essentially, it’s a… a supernatural lockbox," Dre says, pointing out the paragraphs. "The church itself sits dead center in a pentagram. There are five more sacred ground churches that create the points of the pentagram, along with five bless-water pools, five cross roads with iron pentagrams buried at the cross points of each, and a salt-gravel circle around the entire thing."  
  
Bobby looks slightly flabbergasted. "I… I have no idea what to say," he whispers, tracing the text with his finger. "I've read this before, but I didn't put it together."  
  
Dre laughs breathlessly. "It doesn't matter, Bobby. We found it now. This changes everything."  
  
*  
  
She steps out of the room while Bobby calls the boys. It's not like she doesn't know that he's been keeping in touch with them, because she does. She's glad of it. He's their family, too. Probably more so. She wouldn't begrudge anyone having Bobby Singer, because Bobby Singer is a goddamn godsend.  
  
But she also knows that he hasn't told them that she's here. Or, if he has, he's only told Sam. She knows that Dean hasn't asked. Even if he wanted to, his damned Winchester pride wouldn't let him. And she doesn't begrudge him that, either. She thinks she'd probably be the same if their roles were reversed.  
  
She's fine with it. She's accepted it.  
  
She just needs some time to convince herself of that.  
  
*  
  
Finally having found what she'd been looking so furiously for, Dre can stop to rest.  
  
Or, she would if she could make herself shut down. Sleep. It sounds divine.  
  
But she knows, oh, she knows what waits for her.  
  
Pain and betrayal.  
  
Orange swallowing brilliant green.  
  
The screams and cries of a victim who never got a chance to live.  
  
It's all there. Waiting.  
  
The bed shifts, but Dre isn't even flinch. She's gotten too used to Verdandi sharing her space.  
  
"Did you know?" she whispers into her pillow.  
  
Verdandi's hand strokes lightly over tangled hair. "About the church? Yes, I did."  
  
"What didn't you just tell me?"  
  
The bed shifts some more as the goddess lies down next to Dre. "I had my reasons, and they are not yours to know."  
  
Dre just nods, her eyes growing heavy under Verdandi's soothing presence. "I… um, would you stay with me?"  
  
The smile that graces the goddess's face is that of a mother's. "Of course, darling," she whispers. "You just sleep."  
  
Dre does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually came up with this "lockbox" idea before I saw the end of season one. I swear. Haha.
> 
> Pyrrus is a OMC I started creating, who is the youngest sibling of Azazel and Rajani, who are children of Lucifer. 
> 
> In Norse Mythology, Skuld is also a Valkyrie. 
> 
> And "devika" means Little Goddess in Sanskrit.


	14. On The Edge Of Going Under

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You okay there, Deirdre?"
> 
> She tears her eyes away from the empty stretch of road in front of them and meets Bobby's eyes. "Yeah, I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"
> 
> Bobby snorts, reaching over to pry her fingers loose from the wheel. "One, you're shaking so bad I can feel it over here. Two, you're so pale, I can almost see right through your skin, and three, you've still got a shard of glass stuck in your shoulder that really needs to come out," he says. "Pull over, and lemme take a look at it."
> 
> Dre shakes her head, and tightens her grip on the wheel again. "No. We can't stop. It's not safe. Not yet."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The storm hits.

**May 28th, 2009**  
 **1:11 AM**  
   
Thunder cracks approximately six seconds after the flash of lightening lit up the night, and Dre sighs. One point two miles. The storms have been getting closer over the past few days, and she can feel more than just electricity running through her veins.   
   
Something is coming.  
   
It'll be there soon.  
   
*  
   
The first tangible clue was when Verdandi disappeared a few days before in the middle of a heated debate with Bobby about some legend or another. Verdandi is a sore loser, and it really eats at Her when Bobby makes a valid point about something that she didn't think of first. She never just walks away.  
   
Bobby had smirked, but Dre could see the same fear crawling under her skin bloom in his eyes.  
   
*  
   
 **May 30th, 2009**  
 **1:23 PM**  
   
The next storm is only point six miles away.  
   
Bobby starts packing up his books.  
   
Dre starts prepping her weapons.  
   
*  
   
 **5:11 PM**  
   
The storm is right on top of them, and it brings a horde of black eyes and screaming voices with it.  
   
They're ready, sawed-offs loaded and cocked, as they stand on Bobby's rickety old porch.  
   
They watch as, one by one, the demons break away from the group and make for the house.  
   
Bobby raises his gun, fires a warning shot into the mass, as Dre turns, and shoulders the door open. Inside, the hall floor is soaked in holy water and crusted with salt. A devil's trap adorns the ceiling. It won't hold many of them, but every little bit helps.  
   
Bobby pushes in behind her, and they head for the kitchen, where the floor had received an identical treatment as the front hall. The door clatters open behind them, and they hear a grunt of displeasure and a sigh of irritation. At least one down. God only knows how many to go.  
   
The others swarm into the kitchen behind them, all but the stupid few glancing up as they go, floor smoking and creaking underfoot. Dre turns and barely manages to get off a shot before one of the demons is throwing their arm out, sending her flying into a glass front cabinet.  
   
Bobby shouts, trying to draw the demon's attention away from her, as Dre fumbles a hand into her pocket, gasping as she feels a piece of glass break off in her shoulder, and pulls out a voice recorder. A stream of Latin pours out of the tiny speaker when she pushes play, and tosses it as hard as she can into the next room.  
   
The pained squealing starts right away, but a couple of the demons fight it as they try to go after the device.  
   
Bobby grabs her hand and drags her towards the back door, where his rusted out truck awaits, books already packed in, and Dre's weapons bag stashed in the foot-well of the passengers' seat.  
   
Dre slides into the driver's seat, and cranks the engine as lightning strikes the house not three feet away.  
   
She's tearing out of the lot before Bobby even has his door fully closed.  
  
*  
  
 **7:38 PM**  
  
Dre's hauling ass, and she's really, really hoping that they don't run into any cops, because she's already so on edge that she's vibrating, and she doesn't even want to know what she might do if anyone gets in her way right now.  
  
Bobby keeps throwing concerned looks at her as he talks on the phone with Dean. Dean, who just answered the vaguely frantic voicemail that Bobby had left him two hours, seventeen minutes, twenty-nine seconds ago. In the back of her head, she wonders who's skirt he was too busy chasing to answer Bobby's call. It sounds off, even in her own mind, and she pushes it firmly away.  
  
He was on a hunt.  
  
He was pulling a prank on Sammy.  
  
He was working on the Impala.  
  
He wasn't being attacked by demons.  
  
Bobby closes his phone with a snap, and it jolts her back into the moment. Her fingers are white on the steering wheel, and she's got her teeth gritted together so hard it's starting to hurt. She forces herself to breathe deep, relax.  
  
"You okay there, Deirdre?"  
  
She tears her eyes away from the empty stretch of road in front of them and meets Bobby's eyes. "Yeah, I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"  
  
Bobby snorts, reaching over to pry her fingers loose from the wheel. "One, you're shaking so bad I can feel it over here. Two, you're so pale, I can almost see right through your skin, and three, you've still got a shard of glass stuck in your shoulder that really needs to come out," he says. "Pull over, and lemme take a look at it."  
  
Dre shakes her head, and tightens her grip on the wheel again. "No. We can't stop. It's not safe. Not yet."  
  
"Girl, either you pull this truck over, or I'm pulling it over for you."  
  
Dre sighs. "I'm fine, Bobby. Let's just get a little bit farther, and then I'll pull over."  
  
Bobby gives her a skeptical look.  
  
"Next town, I swear," she whispers, turning her eyes back to the empty road.  
  
*  
  
Next town turns out to be only fifteen minutes away, and Dre fights the urge to keep driving. Keep moving. Running.  
  
She hates running.  
  
Bobby gives her the evil eye until she pulls onto the exit ramp, and into the town. She finds a gas station easily enough, and figures it's not a bad idea to stop. If they run out of gas, they can't run. If they can't run… she pushes that thought away, too.  
  
She twists in her seat to get at her duffle where it's stashed in the shallow back seat of the truck. "I'm gonna change out of this bloody shirt, make it easier for you to get at the wound," she says, pulling out a tank top, and not even bothering to look at Bobby while she talks. "Fill up the tank, and if you want anything to eat, get it now, because I don't plan on stopping again anytime soon."  
  
She stalks toward the station without waiting for Bobby's reply.  
  
*  
  
In the bathroom, she strips off her shirt, and tries to clean up as much blood as she can. The glass isn't imbedded all that deep, but it's at an awkward angle, and she figures she'll need Bobby to get it.  
  
Her (Dean's) favorite bra is ruined, but she doesn't really care at this point. It doesn't matter.  
  
She raises her head slowly, and meets her own eyes. She's not all that surprised to see how dark they are. Like calling to like, dark calling to dark, and fire flairs hotter than she can handle. She just wants it to stop burning.  
  
"We're fine," she whispers to her reflection. "We'll be fine."  
  
Water does nothing to quench the fire burning in her stomach.  
  
*  
  
She leaves the bloody shirt stuffed down in the trashcan, and makes her way back out to the truck with a candy bar and two packets of painkillers secreted away in her pocket.  
  
Old habits die hard.  
  
Besides, she's good at it.  
  
Bobby's standing next to the driver's door, hat in hand, and she finally stops to see how this is affecting him. He's always had this air of immortality to him, but right now, he looks his age. He looks tired and worn. He looks human.  
  
Dre chuckles to herself and thinks this is probably what it's like for children when they realize that Mom and Dad aren't actually superheroes.  
  
They're just heroes.  
  
She moves to stand beside him and nudges her shoulder against his. "So, I probably should've told you this right at the start, but I can be a bit of a self-centered bitch at times. Hope you don't hold it against me," she says.  
  
Bobby just grins at her, and pulls his hat back on. "Wouldn't dream of it," he replies. "Now how about you let me look at that shoulder."  
  
*  
  
 **9:56 PM**  
  
Bobby's phone rings, flashing Dean's cell number, and Bobby sighs in annoyance. "I ain't talking to him again. It's your turn," he mutters, shoving the phone at Dre, where she sits slouched in the passengers' seat. "He ain't going to be satisfied until he hears it from you that you're alright."  
  
It's already the fourth time he's called, in almost two hours. She doesn't blame Bobby for being annoyed, but still.  
  
"I don't want to."  
  
Bobby glares at her. "I don't care if you don't want to. He's going to keep calling until he hears it from you that you're not bleeding out in my truck, but he's got too damned much pride to actually say he wants to talk to you, so you're just going to have to be the bigger person here and answer the goddamn phone before I throw it out the goddamned window," he says, sighing when the phone stops ringing. "Call him back, wouldcha? It's not like you're not going to have to face him when we get there anyway, so why not get it out of the way now?"  
  
The phone starts ringing again.  
  
Bobby gives her the evil eye.  
  
"Oh fine," she exclaims, snatching the phone from his hand and flipping it open. "Hello?"  
  
She hears a slight intake of breath, clothes rustling, and Sammy's muffled voice saying, "you're the one who keeps insisting on calling, Dean! Just man up and talk to her, dammit!"  
  
A sigh and then Dean's clearing his throat. "Uh, hi."  
  
She sighs, too. "Hi."  
  
"Uh," more rustling, "how's your shoulder?"  
  
She shrugs, and the ache in her shoulder completely belies her answer. "It's okay. How have you and Sammy been doing?"  
  
He clears his throat again, and she hears the creak of leather on leather. "We've been okay. Ran into Yin and Yang a few states back. That was kind of… weird," he says.  
  
"I guess it would be," she says back, and then silence settles over them heavily.  
  
*  
  
 **May 31st, 2009**  
 **3:18 AM**  
  
Bobby's conked out in the passengers' seat, and Dean's breathing in her ear.  
  
They've been talking over and around the obvious issue all night, but at least they're talking. Dean talks about having to change the Impala's flat tire on the side of the rode in the middle of the night, with Sammy bitching over his shoulder the whole time. Dre talks about Verdandi turning Bobby's guard dog in training into a melted pile of lovesick puppy goo.  
  
Dean tells her about the various hunts they've been on ("without her" her mind supplies, but she ignores it), and Dre… well, Dre bites her tongue against everything that wants to come hurling out.  
  
How much she hates him.  
  
How badly she is going to kick his ass.  
  
How she has a hard time sleeping without him holding her.  
  
How fucking much she's missed him.  
  
She holds it all back, and laughs when he tells her about Sammy having to wear pink underwear after Dean "accidentally" left a red sock that neither of them owned in the washer.  
  
She's just happy to hear his voice again.   
  
*  
  
 **7:09 AM**  
  
It starts raining as they pull into the drive-through, Bobby behind the wheel again.  
  
Dre rests her head against the window and keeps a careful eye on the sky. No lightening yet, but that doesn't mean it won't come. Better safe than demon chow.  
  
She's gripping Bobby's phone in her hand, waiting for Dean to call again, but it's her phone that starts vibrating in her pocket.  
  
The text stares back at her, and for a moment she can only stare at it.  
  
'I'm a dick, I know.'  
  
It's Dean's number on the screen.  
  
She taps her thumb against the keys, trying to figure out what she's supposed to say to that.  
  
It vibrates again before she can decide.  
  
'I miss you.'  
  
She closes her eyes and breathes.  
  
It starts thundering in the distance, but she presses the keys without looking up.  
  
'I miss you, too.'  
  
*  
  
The phone doesn't ring anymore that day, and Dre takes the wheel again.  
  
She's hoping they'll be able to outrun this storm.


	15. Nothing Else Worth The Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little Deirdre grew up. However, other than that, Sister Gwen can tell... it's her.
> 
> She always had a way of walking as if the world was on her shoulders, but she knew she was strong enough to carry it, even if she didn't want to.
> 
> This back and forth of fire and ice, anger and world-weary acceptance that was far too old for the little girl she used to be.
> 
> It's still far too old for the woman she is now.

The change happens about three miles from the orphanage. Her brow smoothes out, her hands unclench from the steering wheel, fingers blushing red with blood. She sits up straighter, breathes a little deeper.  
  
Bobby won't admit it, but he breathes a little easier, too.  
  
It's a good change. For now, at least.  
  
*  
  
 **St Ann's Orphanage**  
 **Lawrence, Massachusetts**  
 **May 31st, 2009**  
  
Sister Gwen sinks down into her chair, feeling every one of her forty-eight years. She's young compared to most of the Sisters', but she can't help but think that she's getting too old for this. She's been thinking that since Sister Clarice passed away last year. She was only fifty-three, but she had carried herself as if she was so much older.  
  
Happens when you've seen and done the things that woman had.  
  
Clarice had confided in her once, about what really happened to little Katherine... Deirdre. That little bright eyed, quick-witted Deirdre. Gwen herself can't understand why anyone could ever think something was wrong with that girl. Yes, she had her special needs, and more mood swings than a pregnant woman, but all she'd needed was a little loving attention.  
  
The children her age hadn't known how to act around her, so mostly they just avoided her. The younger children loved her, even if she had been the one causing most of their nightmares with all those scary stories she'd tell.  
  
Give her a little one-on-one attention, and she flourished.  
  
She always insisted on being called Deirdre. Gwen was the only one who did... but only when out of earshot of the others. Katherine seemed so much more at home in her skin when she was Deirdre.  
  
She wonders sometimes what happened to her.  
  
"Demons?" she scoffs to herself. Maybe they exist, maybe they don't. But why anyone would think they'd be possessing that little girl is beyond her.  
  
Father Arrian had resigned only six month after little Deirdre had run away. No one but Clarice had known why.  
  
Now Gwen carries the knowledge.  
  
An engine gunning outside breaks her thought-line.  
  
She glances at the clock, trying to remember if there was an appointment today. Three oh eight and she can't think of any.  
  
She pushes herself up out of the chair, sighing as she goes (it's a comfortable chair), and looks out the window.  
  
There's a big, black car in the lot, and all the older boys are crowding around it, chattering excitedly, while two men get out.  
  
... two very good-looking men, at that.  
  
The shorter of the two starts shooing the kids away from the car while smoothing reverent hands over the side of it.  
  
The taller one scoffs, and grabs his companion's arm, dragging him to the building.  
  
Gwen straightens her shirt (today is casual Tuesday) and goes to greet them.  
  
*  
  
 **4:48 PM**  
  
Sam sits and watches Sister Gwen as she watches Dean pace.  
  
She'd seemed more then surprised when they'd told her that they're friends of Deirdre. Sam had seen that look more than once in their line of work.  
  
To Sister Gwen, Katherine Deirdre Connelly was a ghost.  
  
Whether it's a good thing or not that her ghost isn't a ghost anymore, Sam has yet to figure out.  
  
The way Dean radiates anxiety and excitement makes Sam hope with everything he is that it's a good thing.  
  
He's not sure what they'll do if it's not.  
  
*  
  
 **6:32 pm**  
  
Dean had called about three hours ago to let them know that he and Sam had made it all right, so Bobby isn't surprised to see the black gleam of the Impala sitting in the parking lot of Saint Ann's Orphanage.  
  
He looks over to gage Dre's reaction, and isn't all that surprised again to see little recognition in her eyes. Her breathing is steady; her eyes clear and alert, if a little lighter brown in the waning light of the sun.  
  
As long as it doesn't affect her (or anyone else) negatively, he's content to let her hide behind what little protection she can find for a while.  
  
God knows, she's been through enough the last couple of month.  
  
*  
  
Dean's tearing out the door as soon as he hears Bobby's truck pull into the lot. Sam follows at a more sedate pace, but it's still bordering a run.  
  
Their girl is back. Sure, she's Dean's girl, mostly, but despite his initial resistance of her, Dre's become like a sister.  
  
She's family.  
  
Dean stutters to a stop a few feet away from her, but Sam barrels on, arms open wide.  
  
... and she just stands there, staring a blank eyed stare that makes Sam shiver and take a faltering step back, before pushing on to wrap her in a hug.  
  
A hug she doesn't reciprocate.  
  
"Hello Sam," she says, voice level, steady, not threatening to break as if this is a big deal. Not a waiver, despite coming home. "Dean."  
  
This time it's Dean that takes a step back, and Sam doesn't need to look to see the guilt that had been lurking in his eyes for the past five months, finally having started seeping away at Dre's texted "Me, too" last night, making its return.  
  
Obviously, not all was forgiven or forgotten.  
  
*  
  
Bobby had immediately busied himself getting their packs out of the cab of the truck, content to let the kids reunite without prying eyes, so he misses it altogether.  
  
He doesn't understand the wary, guarded look in Dean's eyes.  
  
Doesn't understand the shock and anger threading Sam's.  
  
Dre's eyes are still blank.  
  
He doesn't understand what happened, but he figures they'll figure it out.  
  
They always do.  
  
Eventually.  
  
*  
  
Little Deirdre grew up. However, other than that, Sister Gwen can tell... it's her.  
  
She always had a way of walking as if the world was on her shoulders, but she knew she was strong enough to carry it, even if she didn't want to.  
  
This back and forth of fire and ice, anger and world-weary acceptance that was far too old for the little girl she used to be.  
  
It's still far too old for the woman she is now.  
  
She was always a slender child, not particularly tall, and that hasn't changed either. But the black leather jacket and combat boots that should make her look like a child playing dress up only lend harsh edges to the soft curves she would have been.  
  
In another life, maybe.  
  
The shorter of the brothers, Dean, watches her from across the room as if he wishes she were someone else.  
  
She just wonders who it is he's looking for.  
  
*  
  
 **10:56 PM**  
  
Dean moves down the aisles of old church, wincing as his footsteps echo in the silence, but Dre doesn't make any indication that she knows he's there.  
  
"Hey," he whispers as he slips into the pew beside her, making sure to leave a decent distance between them. "Bobby and Sam decided that they'd take the second watch in a couple hours, so I guess it's just us."  
  
She doesn't even blink, staring straight ahead.  
  
He tries to take the hint, really, he does, but the silence is stifling.  
  
"I told you that, uh, Sam and I ran into Yin and Yang, right? Well, what happened was that some witch decided to kidnap Yin, and make a deal with some demon in order to gain unspeakable powers so she could wreak vengeance on her former coven. They'd kicked her out because she'd misused her powers, or some shit like that," he huffs out a laugh, but it sounds pathetic and weak to his own ears. "I mean, can you imagine that? She's pissed cause she got punished for messing up, so she goes decides to fuck the entire world by screwing with the 'cosmic balance'."  
  
She finally moves, leaning forward to rest her arms on the back of the pew in front of them. She still doesn't look at him though, and it's granting on his nerves.  
  
He huffs, shifting slightly on the wooden seat. "So... you're just going to ignore me, huh?" he says, voice rough. "I mean, you've been here for over four hours and you've only said one word to me the whole time. One word, Dre, and it was my name."   
  
Sighing, he lifts a hand to rub roughly at his eyes. "If you're still pissed at me, then please, just tell me. Yell at me. Hit me. Do something! Just stop with the fucking cold shoulder," he hisses.  
  
There's a long silence, and he sighs again, pushing himself out of the pew, intending to go tell Bobby or Sam that one of them will have to take his place, before she finally speaks.  
  
"You should not swear in here."  
  
He scoffs, dropping his hands down to grip the back of the pew. "With everything I've done, I highly doubt swearing in a church is going to be what gets me in trouble."  
  
This time, she sighs. "I would not be so sure. Deirdre had thought the same."  
  
His jerks his head around to look at her, eyes wide. "What?"  
  
She tilts her head toward the front of the church, and his eyes follow, catching on the figure of Christ stretched out on the cross.  
  
"The first time, she was three," she whispers, but he can't tear his eyes away from the cross to look at her. "She does not remember, but I do. Kali knows, but I shielded her from the worst of it. She had learned the word from someone who was not a part of the church. She did not know it was bad. Sister Clarice heard her. So did the Father. She was not a bad child. My gift made her... difficult. She was too young to handle it. They thought she was possessed, because she could not stay with one emotion. She was happy. She was sad. She was violent. She screamed and cried, and she cursed."  
  
Devi looks up at him with pure white eyes. "They took us out of her bed one night, carried us into here. We sat beneath the Man on the cross, and they prayed. Deirdre slept. I did not need to do much to protect her. Her mind was dreaming, so I let her be. Kali needed me more. The words hurt her, burned her like fire. They tried to cast her out, but she was not possessing this body. It is her body, as it is mine. As it is Deirdre's. She could not go, but the words would not let her stay."  
  
He can almost hear it now, the rhythmic up and down of incantations he's heard since he was a child. He can almost see the outline of a young woman holding a sleeping dark haired child in her arms as a stern man in a priest collar leans over them, his hand on the child's forehead.  
  
"I wrapped myself around Kali as tight as I could. It was not easy, for despite being only three years alive; we had spent centuries fighting to remain separate. She fought my hold as violently as she fought the words. It did not last long, but it seemed like it had been forever that I held onto Kali, while Deirdre slept peacefully. It hurt to let go."  
  
He closes his eyes, the illusion slipping away, and sinks down to sit back down next to her.  
  
"That was the first, but it was not the last. After that, I tried to keep my gift from Deirdre, but I could not block it completely. She still felt it. And Kali, she became wary, ever watchful. The second time was a worse than the first, for Deirdre was awake that time. She was frightened. As she should be, for it was not every day that an eight year old experiences a release of the opposite sex," Devi says, lips’ turning up slightly at the corners as Dean lets out a weak laugh.  
  
"She was crying, and Kali was fighting. The words would not hurt Deirdre, but Kali could, if she fought hard enough. I had to shield Kali from the words and Deirdre from Kali. It was hard, but I managed. The third time, though, I could not. For a moment, I lost myself and Kali fought free," she whispers. "Sister Clarice saw her for what she was."  
  
She lifts a hand to wipe at a tear sliding down her cheek, and when she looks up again, her eyes are deep, dark brown. "I ran away a week later," she says, tilting sideways a little to let her head rest against Dean's shoulder. "This place... it was like a pitfall. So much anger and pain. All the kids that come through here with broken and abused pasts, they leave their marks in more ways than just their initials carved in that tree outside."  
  
She sighs, leaning farther into him as he wraps his arm around her shoulders. "The floor, the walls... every single inch of this place is covered in their emotions. Makes me feel like I'm back there again," she says, nodding again toward the front of the church, the cross. "I don't ever want to be that girl again."  
  
*  
  
 **1:55 AM**  
  
When they come out to relieve Dre and Dean, Sam's a little surprised to find Dre curled up on the pew, head in Dean's lap, sound asleep. Happy, but still surprised considering her earlier reception of them. Plus, they're both supposed to be on watch.  
  
Bobby's not so surprised. The girl hasn't slept in what seems like days. Not that she'd really been getting a whole lot of quality sleep in the last few months, as it was. Then again, neither has he. He's found it hard to sleep, not knowing if and/or when a mischievous goddess is going to decide to pop in.  
  
Since Sam has apparently gone mute, Bobby's left to give Dean directions to the guest room that Sister Gwen got them set up in. Dean nods his thanks, and lifts Dre up, frowning a little at how much weight she's lost.  
  
Bobby rolls his eyes at Dean's raised eyebrow. He can't blame the girl for not eating. He lost his appetite with all those damn goddesses around, too.  
  
*  
  
Dean tries to lay her down gently, keep her from waking up, but her eyes snap open the second her head hits the pillow.  
  
"Whoa, hey. Its okay, Dre. Go back to sleep," he whispers, brushing her bangs out of her eyes.  
  
Her short, choppy bangs.  
  
He feels like an idiot for just realizing it, but he blames it on the long drive, the long wait, and then the whole silent treatment thing. "You cut your hair," he says, fingering a lock.  
  
Her lips quirk and she huffs out a laugh as she looks up at him. "Wasn't really my idea. Let's just say that letting the Goddess of the future play with scissors is a very bad idea."  
  
He grins, standing up to toe off his boots. "That so?"  
  
She turns onto her side, curling around a pillow and watching him from under half-lidded eyes. "Yup. Verdandi said I needed a trim, and Skuld decided she was the best goddess for the job. Only, she's worse than a kid is with scissors. Didn't know when to stop," she says. "I actually had to have Bobby even it out for me, because I wasn't letting any of the Sisters' touch my hair after that."  
  
He laughs as he walks around the bed, and lies down next to her. "Well, I like it," he whispers, sliding closer and wrapping an arm around her waist.  
  
She reaches up and laces her fingers through his.  
  
*  
  
For the first time in years, Sister Gwen goes to bed without praying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Devi is the goddess, Kali is the demon, Deirdre is the human.


	16. (A Fight) To The Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Is this what you were aiming for, oh daughter of darkness?" she hisses, pulling Rajani closer, into the power’s circle.
> 
> "You think you would have learned, seeing as you know oh so much about us; the one thing we all agree on is Dean." The power starts to swirl its way up, tendrils reaching out, wrapping themselves tight around Rajani. "The one thing we’ll all happily kill for is Dean."
> 
> "The one thing they’ll let me out for is to kill for Dean."

Twenty-four hours ago, Dre Connelly knew what pain was.  
  
Then again, twenty-four hours ago she’d been alive and kicking. Screaming. Fighting. Twenty-four hours ago, life was normal. Or, about as normal as it ever got anyway.  
  
Funny how fast things change.  
  
*  
  
 **June 17, 2009**  
  
The battle rushes on all around her, but she doesn’t spare it a glance, steadfastly keeping her gaze locked on the sickly orange eyes staring mockingly back at her. She’d made that mistake once ( _secondsminuteshoursdays_ ago). Bitch can mock her all she wants, but Dre is nothing if not a quick study.  
  
Rajani feigns right and Dre barely perceives the rush of black coming from her left before the tide of power flows over, around her. Protecting her. Incinerating anything that dares touch her.  
  
It’s a little unsettling, how quickly she learned to do that. Not quite as troubling as the fact that Rajani seems to know exactly where to hit with her damned verbal jabs, though. The wall blocking this particular set of powers was the first to crumble. Apparently, dear old aunt prefers a challenge.  
  
Right now, Dre is all too happy to oblige.  
  
"What’s the matter, little niece?" Rajani laughs. "Your birthright too much for you to handle?" She slinks through the shadows, parting the writhing, screaming mass with but a touch. "Just goes to show, _devika_ , that it was never meant to be yours."  
  
"Not worthy, not worthy," a thousand voices scream, and Dre screams with them. Rajani’s nails-across-a-chalkboard voice would be preferable to the voices of her damned pets. The damned souls. Sold. Bought. ("Like Dean would’ve… should’ve been," Rajani had whispered right before all Hell broke loose. "He should have been mine. Will be mine. So, so sweet.")  
  
A long forgotten (forbidden, wrong, twisted, tainted) part of her mind, her soul, her heart shrieks in anger at the memory. The tainted power twining itself around her, over her, through her, pulses red-hot, craving _bloodfleshdeath_. Dre pushes it back, hating the way it feels like comfort. Like home.  
  
Rajani, silent for once, just stares, transfixed on the power dancing around its owner’s feet. Her skin shifts as she steps forward ( _chocolatetocoffeetocaramel_ ), drawn like a moth to a flame, even as her mind goes chaotic. ("it’s real, it’s ours, should be ours, we’ll win, we’ll rule, everything will bow.")   
  
The power pulses again, pushing back hard against Dre’s hold, slamming into her. Something shatters inside, crumbles, and her hands fly up to catch Rajani’s wrists in a vice. She looks up, fire and darkness seeping into brown eyes, and smirks, razor sharp. "Is this what you were aiming for, oh daughter of darkness?" she hisses, pulling Rajani closer, into the power’s circle.  
  
"You think you would have learned, seeing as you know oh so much about us; the one thing we all agree on is Dean." The power starts to swirl its way up, tendrils reaching out, wrapping themselves tight around Rajani. "The one thing we’ll all happily kill for is Dean."  
  
"The one thing they’ll let me out for, is to kill _for_ Dean."  
  
The tendrils surge, hot as hellfire and cold as moonlight, down into Rajani’s skin, ripping it away in strips of caramel, coffee, and chocolate. Fire and darkness duke it out in Dre’s eyes as she laughs, the sound melding with Rajani’s screams, power slipping over her skin like a caress. Muscles and tendons melt, dripping oily over Dre’s fingers, and her power flares as it consumes the inky darkness of a sister-soul.  
  
She holds onto Rajani’s wrists until the bones disintegrate into ash. Screams, both Rajani’s and the damned, still echo through the air, but it's finally quiet enough that she hears the shout ring out.  
  
"Deirdre!"  
  
She turns, a crooked smile gracing her lips. He’s running toward her, covered in blood and ash, and still beautiful. Always beautiful. Even shrouded in flames and screaming in pain, he’d still be…  
  
"Dean."  
  
He’s almost to her, slowing from a run to a limping walk, and she can almost feel him. She can almost…  
  
"No!"  
  
White-hot pain sweeps through her, bringing her to her knees. Dean’s arms slip around her, but there’s too much chaos in her mind to enjoy it. She tries to look up, tries to whisper his name again, but the blinding light pulls her down before she can.  
  
Her eyelids close on a mess of dark and light, streaks of brown.  
  
She never sees the writhing mass of damned souls closing in on them.  
  
*  
  
 **June 18 2009**  
  
At six thirty am, Dre’s goddess soul, Devi, opens translucent eyes. She’s sitting in front of a river, wet pebbles catching and glittering like diamonds in the weak sunlight. The grass is lush and green, and two squirrels are playing tag not even a foot away.  
  
It’s beautiful.  
  
It’s not real.  
  
She feels incomplete.  
  
*  
  
At five ten am, Dre’s demon soul, Kali, opens endless eyes. She’s sitting in the middle of the battleground, fire and smoke swirling in the wind. The sun has barely breached the blood red horizon, and the screams of the damned still sing through the air.   
  
It’s horrifying.  
  
It’s real.  
  
She feels free.  
  
*  
  
Nowhere, Dre opens up spirit eyes. She’s sitting in a field, awash with wildflowers of every color. In the distance, there’s a clang of swords. A gunshot rings out. The ground trembles as a bomb goes off.  
  
There are voices.  
  
There is chanting.  
  
There is laughter.  
  
There is… _peace_.  
  
And, there is a hand.  
  
She looks up.  
  
"John?"  
  
*  
  
 **June 18, 2009**  
  
At exactly two o’clock am, Dean Winchester lays Dre’s lifeless body down on the bed. The room goes dark as he blows out the candles the Sisters’ had lit. He methodically strips out of his bloody jacket and pulls off his boots. He slides his knife under the pillow, and makes sure that the door is locked. He levers a chair under the handle, just to be safe.  
  
He lies down next to Dre, and pulls the covers up over them.  
  
He closes his eyes.  
  
He doesn’t cry.  
  
He sleeps.


	17. Comfort Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kali sighs in frustration, drawing Dean's confused gaze to her. "It's not meant to hurt you, darlin'. It's meant to protect you," she snaps. "I won't hurt you. Not without good reason. Not like her."
> 
> The cool flames beckon and he slides down to the ground, keeping a wary eye on the demon wearing his girl's face. The demon that technically is a part of his girl. "What do you want?" he questions in a whisper.
> 
> She crouches down in front of him, and raises gentle fingers to comb through his hair. "You," she whispers back. "I just want you, Dean."

Dean dreams of fire.

He stands in the middle of a blackened circle while it rages all around him. However, it doesn't touch him. It doesn't threaten. In contrast to the rest of his life, this fire is… is soft. Warm. Almost comforting, but with the ever present danger edge that alerts him of what lurks outside of the protective ring.

He reaches out slowly, fingers edging toward the dancing flames when arms wrap around his waist. His fingers almost graze the fire as he flinches.

The laugh that rings out behind him is familiar, and he sighs in relief.

"Dre."

She laughs again, this time bitter, and the arms cinch tighter around him, nails curling hard into his shirt.

"I'm sorry, Deirdre cannot be reached at the moment... but I'd be more than happy to take her place."

Dean freezes. "Who are you?"

He feels her smile against his neck, as her hands loosen their grasp and turn into caresses. "C'mon now, baby. You know me. Think really hard."

He turns around, backs away, and she lets him. Her eyes are shrouded in fire and darkness. He puts as much space between them as the fire barrier allows. "Kali. Where's Deirdre?"

Her fire-smile turns to ice. "Not here. Not anymore. She left you, Dean. She left you, even after she promised she wouldn't." She sidles closer, smirking as he backs closer to the flames, and rests her palm over his racing heart. "But I'm still here."

Sudden images flash before his eyes; the old church doors slamming open under the force of demonic rage, endless black eyes everywhere he looked, Bobby and Sam cocking their guns and throwing themselves into the fray. Dre brandishing her iron and silver blades as the demon horde split apart before her and Rajani's blinding dark swallowing her up as Dre stepped gracefully into range.

Rajani melting under the vicious gaze of those same fire and dark eyes staring back at him.

He jerks away from her hand too fast, and stumbles back against the fire.

Not through. Not into. Against. Like a wall.

Not hot. Not burning. Cool. Like comfort.

Kali sighs in frustration, drawing Dean's confused gaze to her. "It's not meant to hurt you, darlin'. It's meant to protect you," she snaps. "I won't hurt you. Not without good reason. Not like her."

The cool flames beckon and he slides down to the ground, keeping a wary eye on the demon wearing his girl's face. The demon that technically is a part of his girl. "What do you want?" he questions in a whisper.

She crouches down in front of him, and raises gentle fingers to comb through his hair. "You," she whispers back. "I just want you, Dean."

*

“This is a dream, isn’t it?”

His face is buried in Kali’s neck as she smooths her hands gently over his head, but he doesn’t have to see it to know her smirk is blade-sharp as she whispers back “Which part; the burn or the relief?”

His hands somehow found their way to her hips, and he digs his fingers into her flesh, knowing that out of all of them, she’d be the one to willingly take it. His pain.

He need but ask.

“Both. Neither,” he mumbles.

Her grip tightens and he knows, out of all of them, she’d be the only one willing to give this. Her fire.

She wouldn’t bother to ask.

“Which do you think, Dean?” she croons into his hair. “Open your eyes, and see for yourself.”

*

The bed is soft and warm, and the room is dark and cool. The hand sifting through his hair is familiar and more than welcome. He doesn’t bother opening his eyes.

“God, that was the weirdest dream.”

The hand doesn’t pause, falter or slow as she hums in reply.

“Fire that didn’t burn,” he whispers against her stomach. “Be nice, wouldn’t it?”

She laughs and tugs playfully at his hair. “But where’s the fun in that?”

The voice is right; all smoke and honey, but…

“Dre?”

The jerk at his hair isn’t playful this time. “Right next to you.”

He pulls away from the fire in front of him, only to collide with the ice behind him.

He looks up.

Fire that doesn’t physically burn. Flames and darkness staring back at him.

He turns around.

Ice that freezes him to the core. Glassy brown eyes staring sightlessly into nothing.

“Which is the dream, Dean? The burn or the relief?”

Kali laughs.

He screams.

*

When the scream breaks the silence on the other side of the thick wooden door, Sam and Bobby freeze. Dean doesn’t scream. Not like that. Not in terror.

They share a glance and turn back to the door, axes gripped tightly in sweaty hands.

The door barely dents when it’s hit.

*

The ring of flames only serves to illuminate how much darkness there is. It’s creeping up the walls, and over the windows. It’s stretching out over the ceiling and carpeting the floor.

Twining around Kali’s feet as she paces.

It flirts with Dre’s hand, dangling off the bed. Dean lifts it gently and crosses it with the other over her stomach. He’d never know it, but the only bright spots in the room are his eyes.

The darkness feeds the non-consuming flames.

He shifts, batting away a tendril of darkness slinking up the bed, and Kali turns to look at him.

“Don’t worry, darlin’. She’ll be here soon.”

He doesn’t look up while he rubs softly at the soot on Dre’s neck. “Who’s ‘she’?”

Anger and sorrow flash in her eyes as she watches his tender touches, but she doesn’t move to stop him. “The third, and final, of our little trinity,” she sighs. “Devi.”

*

In a place to rival the Garden of Eden, two hunters walk side by side.

One looks at the other and says “It’s peaceful,” as an explosion shakes the fertile ground.

The other smiles back and asks about his sons, left behind to follow in their father’s footsteps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is all I have for the story itself. I'll probably add some of the plotlines I did up later, if people wanna read them.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


End file.
